


The Outside Doesn't Always Match The Inside

by waydurie



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe - High School, Horny Sherlock, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Libraries, M/M, Makeup, Other, Piercings, Sherlock's Hair, Teasing, beautiful john, fighting over paper, genderfluid!john, misunderstood teens, music geek sherlock, pens, punk!Sherlock, whispering john
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-01
Updated: 2014-12-30
Packaged: 2018-02-11 09:32:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 40,158
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2062995
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/waydurie/pseuds/waydurie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock had found refuge in music after coming down from a heroin overdose. However, his obsession with music made Sherlock find who he was inside. The change started with his clothes until the Holmes started to worry about their son and his affiliation with the devil. So it was decided. Mycroft was to take Sherlock to the countryside and watch over him as the school year ended. What neither of them knew was that Sherlock wasn't the only one that liked to express themselves through their appearance.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! I hope you enjoy! Comments/kudos are appreciated :)

"Sherlock! Have you no dignity? Must you insist leaving the house every morning looking like an indignant fool?" Mycroft huffed from the breakfast table as his younger brother (unfortunately) walked into the kitchen to prepare his morning tea. It was very rare that Sherlock ate in the morning, ever more so on a school day, but tea was the exception to most of his rules.

"Why continue wasting your time with such stupid questions, Mycroft?" Sherlock scoffed theatrically. A smug smile snaked across his lips when Mycroft rolled his eyes in disdain. "I thought we were past the scathing remarks on my new style. This is how I choose to express myself, and if you truly are horrified by a pair of pants and a shirt, I could always find another alternative to release my 'rebellion'. Come to think of it, I have one in mind already."

The elder Holmes narrowed his eyes, chin raised higher in the air as he answered in a clipped toned. Sherlock had definitely thrown a low blow at Mycroft's aloof attitude but everything is fair in love and war (especially war, thought Sherlock. He never played by the rules). "You _would_ know all about dangerous recreational activities, wouldn't you, brother dear? That should be of no surprise to me." Mycroft paused, his last words appeared to take all of his energy and with Sherlock, one needed to be strategic in order to get a point across. As Sherlock continued to study his brother's reactions, he deduced that Mycroft might've been separating his personal worries from those of the Holmes family to avoid sentiment. "Don't be stupid, Sherlock remember you have a family name to uphold, and a prestigious one, mind. We can't just let you walk around places looking like... _that_."

As Mycroft waved a flippant hand at his outfit, Sherlock stared down at his clothes and found absolutely nothing wrong with what he was wearing. In fact, Sherlock thought he'd put a significant amount of effort (compared to any other day) to leave a decent impression with the rest of the students.

"If I'm not allowed to walk around with the clothes that express the true me, then remind me why you're allowed to terrorize the rest of the population with your army of chins and rolls of fat hidden under thousand pound suits. Where do you find the space to hide you precious slices of cake, Mycroft?" said Sherlock with a bitting sneer. He was tired of people criticizing him and being prejudice all because he refused to wear dress shirts and trousers everywhere he went.

"Oh, brother dear, how sweet, childish I should say, but sweet. I see you're still using weight jokes to cow me into silence. However, those stopped working a long time ago, Sherlock, back when I discovered that the body is merely transport and nothing else. As long as the brain is functioning, the state in which my physical body is in is of no consequence to my conscious. And we all know, little brother, that I am the smart one and will always be the smart one." Mycroft looked giddy with the response he had given Sherlock.

Sherlock paled but he wouldn't give his git of an older brother the satisfaction of winning the argument, "That still doesn't give you the right to tell me what I should or shouldn't wear. As you said, it is my transport and I am to do with as I please. And since you can't be bothered to care for yours, why obsess over mine?"

"I worry about you constantly, Sherlock. I simply want what's best for you and dressing like a low class delinquent isn't right." said the elder Holmes reaching the last of his straws.

Sherlock thought about how hypocritical Mycroft was being. Today would be his first day at a new school with approximately five hundred students to slow him down. Sherlock already knew there couldn't be a way blending in or hiding amongst the shadows of others was an option (thanks to his eccentric fashion taste that matched his 'unique' personality.) so Sherlock would have to brave all the slurs thrown at him.

It was one thing his family refused to believe he existed, but having a whole school turn against him was another. So if he was going to become a red flag, why not do it in a rebellious, but passive, Sherlockian way.

Come on. How can Mycroft complain when Sherlock wasn't actually planning on setting fire to any buildings or poising the town's water supply (nothing serious of course, a very, very weak strain of influenza should do the trick).

Sherlock, was positive the Holmes name could survive the shame a few piercings and ripped jeans brought. It's not like one of the sons has a minor position in the British government and their name alone was worth millions of pounds.

For his big reveal at peasant school, Sherlock decided to wear distressed, acid washed jeans.The pale skin around his knees was exposed just enough to cause intrigue yet still let people's imagination do it's job.

Sherlock could see himself parading around the other students with the black tank top he had on with a printed anatomically correct skeleton on one half of his chest. Not to mention, on the other rib cage were the structured pieces of a violin was roughly sketched to match the bones. His wrists were hidden behind an assortment of bracelets each monumentally different from the other, whether it was in appearance or meaning, Sherlock positively jingled when he moved his arms. The terror he would cause in those hallways, and now he could even announce his presence.

Since it was the middle of January and the weather remained close to freezing, Sherlock put on a leather studded jacket to ward off the cold air, however, he didn't know how effective it would be since the jacket ended at his midriff. Besides the trivial fact of weather, the material was cool and leathery under his fingertips it was the same shade as coal. Silver studs lined the cuffs of the jacket as well as the collar which added another metaphorical barrier of protection between him and others.

"What's so wrong about looking like a delinquent if I'm not actually committing a crime. I'm happy Mycroft! _Actually_ happy and I'm not high on drugs this time, sure I have less hair and holes in my pants, but I'm clean. Shouldn't that be enough?" Sherlock frowned as he made his way towards the door. He was more than ready to leave the forever fat Mycroft and his stupidity behind.

"I wouldn't say that if I were you, brother dear. Are you really happy, Sherlock? Do you even know what happiness is? You may not be committing a court crime just yet, but there will come a day that someone will fall victim of a heart attack looking at your pleasant face." Mycroft smiled self-righteously when Sherlock stormed out of the house like a temperamental hurricane slamming doors in his wake.

  
X

  
Sometime during the Christmas break, without consulting with Sherlock, and having thorough conversations with Mycroft ("who only had his best intentions in mind, son") the other Holmes settled on Sherlock sobering up from the hectic city life and finished his school year elsewhere. His parents begged his dear, dear brother Mycroft if he would be kind enough to watch over his little brother and his studies and of course the devil in a suit agreed to the chance to watch Sherlock suffer.

Mrs. Holmes said that Sherlock was the tragic result of todays society and how it broadcasts messages of rebellion and ignoring social etiquettes.

Meanwhile, Mr Holmes weakly begged his wife to see reason. It was surely a phase and in several months time, Sherlock would see how dull defiance is and everything would settle back to normal.(as close as Sherlock can get to normal) But both of the Holmes parents knew they were wrong in the end.

Sherlock wasn't actively trying to rebel against the system nor was he going through a phase. (If his change pissed people off he hadn't done it intentionally but it still felt good to get some reaction.) He had discovered the hidden person inside of himself while lying on a bed weeks after surviving a heroin overdose.

His nerve endings crawled beneath his skin, his veins screamed from overstimulation, they craved, yearned, dreamed of heroin. During that particular day of withdrawal, Sherlock had gotten the chance to dip his toes into the music of Kansas.

The family's maid always had her personal radio tuned on to one of the throwback stations and in that moment outside of Sherlock's door, he'd heard the legendary chorus of _Carry On My Wayward Son_. This one song had accomplished the impossible feat of getting through Sherlock's thick skull and making him see reason (on a more spiritual and emotional level however he may deny it) His frustrations, his anger faded with every beat. Silence was once his kryptonite but now he has gained a level of appreciation for them because sometimes the words left unspoken in a song is the heart of the story. Sherlock had no reason now to inject the seven percent solution into the crook of his elbow.

Over the next couple of months, Sherlock scoured the internet listening to songs from the last century, hungrily learning lyrics or facts about different bands that were worth wasting energy for.

With reason, Sherlock prided himself on his ability of recognizing songs from the _1970'_ s forward from hearing the first few chords only. The other students at school had tried to intimidate him by making the pitiful mistake betting Sherlock money on the outcome of each round. Sherlock Holmes was always right and would always be right. Using the money he had won from all of the bets, Sherlock went out and bought a Kansas shirt, pride oozing from his every pore. That had been the first time he used his pocket money for something that wasn't design to make him high.

After Sherlock had discovered the comfort of cotton and forgiving fabric, every shirt he had owned had been replaced with either sleeveless tops with a variety of prints, some band t-shirts, or something made of leather. Also, Sherlock no longer kept the dress pants Mummy had bought him in his dresser, he had replaced them all with skin tight jeans.

Sherlock was proud of his redesigned his wardrobe but he needed more, he wasn't done matching his transport to his mind and in order to avoid relapsing Sherlock was determined to try anything.

Not much convincing (or planning) went on when Sherlock was deciding what his next mini-project would be on mission _Rediscovery_. Sherlock had been just as shocked the next day when he came back home with the left side of his head clean shaven and his usual obsidian curls died an electric blue at the tips.

Mycroft threw a hissy fit the second Sherlock had placed a ziptop bag containing the missing half of his hair during dinner. It took Sherlock a week this time to decided that his hair wasn't a radical modification that could represent permanence in his life, a sense of grounding. So Sherlock sneaked off to a tattoo parlor one day after school in hopes of getting a piece of his soul encrypted on to his skin, he was also ready to give Mycroft an even *bigger treat. (*heart attack).

It was a shame Sherlock was still seventeen, the tattoo shop refused to put any ink on or near his body. Sherlock knew he had lost this battle without being able to fight. He couldn't pull the 'Mycroft card' on the tattoo artists or the meddling prat of a brother would know exactly what Sherlock was up to and knowing him (ever so the drama queen) Mycroft would move heaven and Earth to stop Sherlock from having any fun.

Luckily, Sherlock discovered there was a loop hole in the stores policy. They might've refused giving minors tattoos but piercings were fair game as long as they were done without removing any clothing.

Oh the possibilities Sherlock had on getting a piece of metal shoved through layers of skin and cartilage were nauseating (in a good way) but for once Sherlock decided to be somewhat sensible. After all, it would be Sherlock with a needle pressed against his skin so he really thought about making everything as comfortable as possible for both the procedure and healing process.

A mouth piercing would make such an unfortunate place considering the chance of infection. Also, Sherlock took into account the probability of a lose thread or other items getting caught on the ring and tugging away at his skin. _That wouldn't do any good_ , thought Sherlock.

A nose piercing looked devastatingly inconvenient for sneezing and Sherlock didn't even want to think about how the ring got secured into place. _No thank you,_ Sherlock placated.

He then considered his eyebrows. The placement of the eyebrow piercing was perfect, ingenious, actually. The piercing is a strong statement on it's own and regardless the accessory he could have on, people would more likely get the message to stay away from him.

And if Sherlock was going through the constant secrecy and scorn, he damn well wanted his hard work to be appreciated so the option of earrings as well sounded far fetched (and painful).

The problem with earrings was the chance of his long hair getting in the way. But a nice little bar going through the corner of his eyebrow couldn't possibly get in the middle of his peckish eating and breathing. Most important of all, the new piercing would look incredible (if not spectacular) on him and that was a fact.

Father had shrugged halfheartedly when Sherlock had come home but both Mummy and Mycroft went pale as a ghost. Sherlock thought he saw his mother's eyes roll into the back of her head when she finally understood the severity of his actions. First, the disappearance of Sherlock's proper dress clothes, then the savagery committed to his head, and now the inserting of foreign objects into his face. Mrs Holmes had to put a stop to her son becoming the demon's child.

While Christmas break grew closer, family meetings (sans Sherlock) became suspiciously frequent, secretive, and ridiculously complex occurrence. Phone calls were made in the middle of the night, staff screenings held at an MI6 standard. Money had been exchanged, and blackmails were made, above all, the Holmes name had been used shamelessly.

Sherlock had been unwillingly registered into a public school in a town where more than half of the population was made up of cows and sheep. _Oh what joy, how could I possibly be so lucky?_ thought Sherlock when he discovered he was being cast off to his personal hell decades earlier than he had planned.

X

Unfortunately, Sherlock left the house in such a hurry he'd forgotten to grab his signature (and much needed) Belstaff coat. It might've been 5˙C but Sherlock would rather die on a side road from hypothermia than give Mycroft any satisfaction on going back inside to get his coat. Guess he'll just have to freeze then.

January has been terribly unforgiving this year so the gusts of wind whipping away at his face felt like shards of ice being hurtled from close range. Sherlock has never regretted the frayed holes on his knees more than he has now but at least he had thought to put on a jacket over his sleeveless shirt. If not, Mycroft would've had the pleasure of seeing Sherlock admitting defeat and changing his clothes for the day. How about _**no**_.

Moreover, Sherlock has never hated the bloody countryside any more than he has today. Everything was so spread apart and the obscene amount of trees only encouraged the frosty air to surprise him with pneumonia. It was a daunting two mile trek from the estate to the school grounds and Sherlock estimated he had barely made the one mile mark.

It took about thirteen minutes, two low-tar cigarettes, and one trip to the bathroom mirror before Sherlock considered himself presentable for the school's first reveal of Sherlock Holmes.

However, during his trip to the toilets, Sherlock had had to take his time smoothing over the damage done by the harsh, icy gusts of wind. Sherlock's cheeks were smothered in a rosy blush from the polar temperature wearing away at his face. The flush of color incredibly gave him an innocent air (if people squinted whilst looking very quickly and having a half-shaved head and color dipped curls were an everyday thing).

Sherlock growled when he saw the damage done to his curls. The once mop of tousled perfection (he did love to exaggerate) had lost their integral structure as he tore through the stubborn wind currents. Sherlock had been left with a knotted mess of dyed hair and absolutely no hair volume.

It was a good thing Sherlock never went anywhere without the emergency kit for traumas such as these. It was vital he kept a spare compact brush and a miniature bottle of hair product to ensure the revival of his beloved curls.

As of late, Sherlock had started to carry an eyeliner pencil in his travel-sized bag. In his defense, it was after he had conducted his experiment on the optic impact different outlines of color had on eye enlargement. Sherlock had concluded that while eyeliner does wonders for your eyes, it transported Sherlock to a different level of sexiness. (Not to mention how livid it made Mummy and Mycroft now that he was wearing women's makeup)

Sherlock's eyes had a mercurial quality to them, always changing color, mysteriously addicting. When eyeliner was used to heighten their unique nature, not only did people immediately get pulled into his hypnotic eyes but the eyeliner also unleashed Sherlock's charismatic side without any hassle.

Sherlock pulled out the black makeup pencil from the emergency kit and tested how straight his shaky hands could manage a decent outline. After several tries on the back of his hand, Sherlock swept his wrist above his eyes, elegant lines appeared over his lush lashes.

The dark kohl cast a sharp, dark shadow on each of Sherlock's eyelids, black teasing the comic blue swirl of his irises. Sherlock had had very few opportunities to try out any power plays at the other school but from the minor test he'd conducted with several of the females had given positive results.

With Mycroft and his petty, childish mind games, Sherlock had become too distracted to even consider using some of the tricks he kept up his sleeve.

Sherlock was the embodiment of confident when he walked out of the gents bathroom and into the main hallway. More students had started to roam the halls as school stated in twenty minutes but the ones fortunate enough to have been standing by the lockers had seen the arrival of the one and only, Sherlock Holmes.

Many of the students turned their heads when Sherlock walked by. They desperately tried to avoid any (preferably all) contact with the spawn of Satan. Sherlock snickered when he thought that the students were tedious enough to think they are in danger of being stabbed with a sharpened eyeliner pencil.

The ruder, less subtle students gawked at Sherlock as he strutted with his ripped jeans, custom haircut, and his occasional smirk of satisfaction. In other words, Sherlock was an attention whore.  
He had found the main office by pure luck. He needed to collect some papers, his timetable, and a paper that confirmed he attended every class. He would try and prove to Mycroft he really did attend school and didn't chain smoke behind a store all day but there was no point. Nothing he ever did that was remotely well done convinced his brother of anything so he had stopped trying.

The office was very dull. A monotonous shade of beige painted the walls and there were only two desks facing one another. After noticing the door that lead to an adjacent room with a name plate that read _Headmaster_ , Sherlock would've thought he had entered a funeral parlor.

There was only one secretary this early in the morning and she was busy with a phone call. Sherlock loitered around the opposite desk for awhile to keep himself entertained. He was sure no one was going to mind if he messed about with some papers or fiddled around with the pens.

Besides, even if the secretary did mind, she sure as hell wasn't going to do anything about going by the pure look of disgust on her face. All the while she was on the phone, her eyes were narrowed on Sherlock, especially onto his hands as if she were waiting for him to steal something and she was awarded the explicit pleasure of handing Sherlock over to the Headmaster.

The joy it brought Sherlock to mess with the head of the naïve. It wasn't his fault most people chose to believe in ancient preconceived ideas like how piercings only belong on live stock. Or how clothes express one's true intentions in life.

Technically, Sherlock believed in the latter, but just because somedays he dressed like a mix between an _80'_ s metal rock musician and a misunderstood artist that cut his ear off for a painting doesn't means he's any off those in his day to day life. (Although, Sherlock is fond of painting designs on his skin with felt tip markers. He's decided tattoos are too dull and permanent and he couldn't possibly imagine his skin marked with the same picture for the rest of his life.)

Sherlock looked over to the tetchy secretary and held her gaze, he picked up a black pen twirling it in his fingers. The poor woman tried her hardest to carry on with her conversation over the phone but the moment Sherlock used the pen to trace a suspiciously familiar star on his inner wrist, she couldn't stop stuttering. Sherlock glared into the horrified eyes of the aging woman with a devious grin as he finished the last lines at a disturbingly slow pace.

Sherlock had already started to draw a steady circle around his masterpiece of a star when he'd gotten the pen plucked out of his hand. The first thing that went through his head was the Headmaster already giving him crap for being a 'vandal' and the ongoing lecture about, 'running a quiet, respectful school and we don't need your type ruining the school's atmosphere or spirit.'

"Terrorizing poor old ladies before class, I see. Having any fun?" said the voice behind him.

Sherlock rewarded the person with his most long-winded, dramatic sigh, "Well it depends on your definition of fun but I doubt you enjoy watching secretaries piss in their knickers as they watch you draw a pentagram on your wrist." His scoff was one for the records. Seriously, Sherlock cursed at himself for not having recorded it so he could've played it over and over again. It would've proved to be tremendously useful for future discussions at the Holmes residence.

"So that's what you were drawing." The voice sounded amused. It could've been because Sherlock had just given them even more of a reason to expel him within the first hour of school. "Well, I'm not one for satanic symbols but I a nice picture of a penis would've sufficed in making her uncomfortable. Mabel --the secretary-- lives quite a conservative lifestyle, rumor has it, she's never seen a man shirtless." The person behind him chuckled lightly.

Sherlock was extremely confused, and by extremely he meant completely. So the person behind him wasn't the Headmaster minutes away from signing the papers of his expulsion? Then who could the person behind him possibly be if they were interested enough to talk to Sherlock willingly? Had they actually looked at him and his half bare head and black rimmed eyes and said to themselves, "maybe I should talk to this delinquent with a Satanic fixation?"

Sherlock turned to face the person behind him and his mouth most certainly went slack. "Interesting, very interesting." whispered Sherlock eyeing the person from head to toe, his were eyebrows arched high with immense interest.

The person behind him had been a boy but not quite it was similar to Sherlock's case. Everyone thought he was rebelling against authority figures but in reality he's expressing his inner self.

Xe had blonde hair. Long enough to fringe beautifully over xir eyes but short cut just above the ear. Pale colored jewels sparkled from a hair clip that had been keeping the feathery fringe off of xir face.

And just like Sherlock, the person had rimmed their eyes with kohl, but xir's was an exquisite shade of violet instead. It suited xir incredibly well since xir blue eyes were bright pools of liquid sapphire and the purple outline complimented the darker flecks of color in the iris.

It took a blinking Sherlock to notice the subtle dusting of a matte pink eyeshadow that without a doubt made Sherlock reevaluate his whole life right then and there. Oh god xir gorgeous eyelashes went on for forever and swept along the top of xir cheekbone whenever xe blinked.

Now the interesting part wasn't xir makeup but the choice of clothing. Xe was wearing an oatmeal colored jumper with a scoop neck that hung off of xir body significantly. However, popping out of the top of the knitted material, Sherlock saw the collar of a white, lacy shirt that in the right light, shimmered and sparkled magnificently.

Instead of wearing pants, xe had chosen to wear leggings in near freezing weather but who was Sherlock to judge when he had gaping holes in his jeans. When Sherlock had really seen the leggings, he had been shell shocked and actually scared himself when he considered the help of a higher power at work.

Xe had chosen a peculiar pair of leggings to wear considering the fabric was black and printed in white were the leg bones mapped out along the thighs and calfs along the front. Since Sherlock had a shirt doubling as a chest x-ray and this unbelievable person had magically filled in the missing blanks to his imaginary skeleton, Sherlock had to ascertain the possibility of fate's existence.

"Interesting? What do you mean by interesting?" xe asked taking a tentative step back. A look of fear shot through clear blue eyes and never has Sherlock ever wanted to fix something so badly.

Sherlock put his hands up trying to conciliate xir from any offense he might've caused. "I meant interesting as in you actually believe the rumors of the oh so chaste and pure Mabel." The person (who looked like xe stepped out of Sherlock's dreams) exhaled with an air of relief and nodded, then xe raised an eyebrow.

"How would you know the rumors aren't true? I've never seen you around school before because I surely would've remembered you." xe unconsciously licked xir glossy bottom lip. (Oh dear! How could ha have forgotten to notice the lip gloss?) "In that case, I'm John Watson, nice to meet you..."

His brain must've shrunk in the presence of the most interesting, most breath taking person he had ever met in his seventeen years of life. Xe identified ximself with a male name but dressed in female clothes. How curious! (However the jumper did seem male in make and model but that could be financial factors coming into play. Need more data.)

After five seconds of gaping like a fish and making an utter fool of himself, Sherlock finally picked up that John wanted Sherlock to introduce himself. _Act cool Sherlock. For Newton's sake don't fuck this up_.

"I'm Sherlock Holmes, and anyone would've know about the rumors earlier if they simply paid attention."

John pursed his lips, "Paid attention? What do you mean? You've only been here for ten minutes, and half of those were spent drawing a pentagram on yourself. Which by the way, nice job. Those lines look pretty straight, and that circle, mate."

Sherlock giggled but bit his lip in effort to stop such childish acts. John had asked Sherlock to explain his deduction and that meant proving his professionalism (and not just of course not to showoff).

"Look at her neck. She's wearing a high collared shirt and a scarf indoors. Sure, no one would think twice since it's winter but if you look at the back of her ear, she has a distinct bruise that could only be results of oral pleasure.

"Her nails seem fine to the untrained eye, but if you look at her cuticles, she's had to repaint them in a hurry within the last six hours to hide where the paint chipped. Possibly from when she was tearing off the clothes from another man but most likely when --"

"Okay! I get the point! Mabel isn't as holy as she leads on to be. But --" John had paused, xir face looked pensive and Sherlock was mentally preparing himself for the slurs that followed. "that thing, whatever you just did --was incredible, amazing. You'll have to show me how to do it later."

Sherlock froze once more that day, however, this time around he found himself in a trickier situation. John could very easily say no and break Sherlock and the hopes he had, but John could also say yes.

"You mean that? You want to see me later." Sherlock gasped. He was surprised that someone as interesting as John would want to meet continue seeing someone as dangerous and life ruining as Sherlock.

"Yeah, course I do." John nodded shyly, xe wrung xir hands nervously. "But only if you want to. You don't have to. Meet me later that is. I'm sure your busy and all but--"

"Yes" said Sherlock with a tone of finality.

"Yes you'll come?" John's smile was small and eventually faded as he continued. "Or, yes you're busy?" If Sherlock had thought John was adorable, that was before he had seem xir pale skin alight with a blooming blush.

"Of course I'll come, John. Don't be so dense. Why wouldn't I want to see you later? You're the most interesting person I've met in quite some time." Sherlock spoke to John as if they had been friends for a life time, sarcastic, bitting, and rude. Yet John managed to hear the tenderness beneath Sherlock's words being one of the first people to come anywhere near the inner bearings of expression.

John's blush reached the tip of xir ears and John's eyes shimmered with excitement, "Great, that's, um. Great. Maybe we could meet at the library during lunch. That's where I usually eat my lunch anyways."

Sherlock couldn't have thought of anything he had ever done in his life that was better than lunch with John Watson, "I'll see you there, John. I'm really looking forward to it." That was when fate decided to get funny and the first bell rang for class. John collected his bag from the floor and began to head to class. However, Sherlock still had no clue what his classes were because Little Miss Holy Saint hadn't hung up the phone yet.

Sherlock rushed to catch John at the office door. He pressed down gently on xir shoulder to catch his attention. John spun around ready to speak before Sherlock used every iota of his courage and blurted out, "I forgot to say how lovely you look today, John. You put everyone else in this school to shame." Finally the nerves had settled and his rushed words became suave and seductive. "You must be after my heart, I really like your leggings if you haven't seen my shirt by now. Stay beautiful for me, John Watson." Sherlock pressed his lips lightly against John's cheek and turned away to bother the secretary again pen already in hand.

Sherlock surreptitiously sneaked a glance at John and saw the poor person staring at the air with a smile brighter than all the stars in the galaxy.

John Watson, where did you come from?


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I felt like the first chapter needed a bit of a follow up so I wrote a sequel/2nd chapter (depending if you guys want me to continue it). I hope you enjoy genderfluid John and punk Sherlock as you read because I know I did as I wrote the chapter! Comments/kudos are appreciated. 
> 
> And I really hope I am getting the pronouns for John right because I nor no one I know are genderfluid and anything I have used has been solely found on nonbinary websites and I still am a bit foggy on it all. So if I'm getting something wrong or I could make it better, PLEASE don't hesitate to let me know. I would hate to cause anyone any offense.

  
The tapping sound of Sherlock's fingers was barely audible above the whirling noise of the air vents in the dated library. In the few hours he'd been at school, Sherlock had already noticed that whatever money the school fundraisers makes certainly doesn't go into renovations or student/school supplies.

Most, if not all the text books provided in his classes were missing a cover. Some were even missing the spine that held them together. Now Sherlock had to walk around with two textbooks buried within layers of duct tape. **Oh!** And he had a locker that didn't lock (so really what was the purpose?).

The library wasn't entirely terrible but it wasn't up to snuff either. A good percentage of the book shelves were empty with not a book in sight. Others were shoved full with tomes with no particular order of genre.

Sherlock really didn't want to look at the carpet because deep down, he knew some things in life could not be unseen (or deleted in his case). When he'd walked in, his shoes had gotten stuck to the (carpeted!) floor and it wasn't gum --let's leave it at that.

Sherlock could understand why the students are hesitant on spending their lunch in the library. Sure, the disorder might make research hellish and probably put many students on edge during finals. But Sherlock must say that the calm, almost silent atmosphere was perfect for his meeting with John.

He glanced at a clock that was nailed to the wall. Sherlock had been waiting patiently at the table now for eight minutes (and thirty-eight seconds but whose counting, right?). John _had_ said to meet here --at the library-- at lunch, right?

Sherlock had heard xir right, John explicitly said the library at lunch. But why wasn't xe here yet? Sherlock's poor fingers were slowly going to wear away at the table if John kept him waiting any longer.

Forty-seven seconds later (again, not that anyone was counting), the door library door opened and Sherlock's head whipped to the side trying to get a look at the person.

 _Curse those book shelves_ , Sherlock grumbled. He'd purposely chosen a table in a back corner for added privacy but now he couldn't see anyone by the doorway. Like usual, his genius plans come back to bite him in the arse.

Sherlock heard a short mumbled conversation followed by light, hesitant steps coming his way. It surely had to be John. Who else was going to come join Sherlock in this dump of a library during their free hour?

John turned the corner of a book shelf wringing xir hands. Blonde wisps of hair escaped the broach in his head as xe had xir head lowered along with those gorgeous blue eyes Sherlock had been craving to see all morning. John stood at the other end of the table, eyes still focused on the questionable carpet. _We can't have this,_ thought Sherlock. _Unacceptable. My John shouldn't feel nervous around me, I won't allow it._

Sherlock leaned forward in his chair, "I must say that I'm honored, John." He deliberately paused to see if his words warranted a reaction from the blonde teen. Sherlock smiled warmly when John raised xir head to look at Sherlock. "I asked you to stay beautiful for me tin the office. And here you are. It's lunch time and you're looking exceptionally gorgeous. You didn't disappoint me, John."

"Oh, yeah. Um, thanks --yes, thank you, Sherlock. You look good, too. Really, um, good." John looked utterly delectable with the blush crawling up xir neck. Xe'd finally gotten confident enough to get closer to Sherlock and hopefully pull out a chair for xirself.

"My pleasure, John. I won't say anything if I don't mean it, that's not who I am. And I could never lie to you, it would be a crime if I did." John took the chair adjacent from Sherlock and promptly crossed xir legs, the blush had intensified by a thousandfold. _Smooth,_ Sherlock patted himself on the back.

Now that John was closer to Sherlock, his chromium eyes picked up several differences on John right away.

Instead of the glossy finish John had had on his lips that morning, now they were a shimmery shade of coral. The switch of colors did wonders for John's skin tone and eyes since the pink undertones brought out the gold flecks in the sea of icy blue.

Sherlock then noticed John's cheeks. Although it had only been seconds ago John had been blushing, it was very unlikely for the color of xir cheeks to remain concentrated in one place. Wasn't the flushing of color supposed to fade over time or progress to other parts of the face? That could mean colored blush, and oh Sherlock could just picture John dusting xir cheekbones with the fine powder.

So John had changed xir lipstick and had added blush. What else?

Sherlock had a tendency of becoming over excited and missing important details. But after he had done another once over, Sherlock noticed John's violet eyeliner was neater than now than during their run in at the office. Also, now the subtly pink eyeshadow had been more evenly distributed over xir eyelids.

Was that perfume, he smelled? Sherlock had been picking up hints of jasmine and vanilla for sometime but dismissed it for some reason. However, it was all making sense now.

John hadn't forgotten their 'date,' no. John had gone all out to impress Sherlock going through the trouble of reapplying xir makeup. Xe even added some of xir personal touches to satisfy Sherlock and his cheesy request.

John was precious, a gift to Sherlock's life that made everything beautiful. John was slowly becoming Sherlock's universe and it all started with John's damn leggings and the combined forces of makeup brands. John was going to be the death of Sherlock and he had absolutely no objections on the matter.

John tried to process Sherlock's words, blinking xir eyes multiple times before xe changed to a lighter topic. "So. Sherlock, did you enjoy your first official morning of classes? School gets pretty boring at times."

Sherlock chuckled dryly and thought, _if only you knew._ "Besides the maimed books and fossilized teachers, everything's been going just fine. Actually, it's been better than I thought." confessed Sherlock.

"How'd you mean?" John asked quietly. It was like xe knew what Sherlock was going to say but wanted to hear Sherlock say it for himself.

"I assumed everyone would freak out once they saw my ripped jeans and pentagram tattoo --the pen one from this morning, I finished it after you left." Sherlock winked playfully. "Except, the students here are somewhat understanding of my way of life, a refreshing difference from my old school. Mycroft will be so pissed when he hears."

John pursed xir lips and Sherlock worried he'd said something wrong. "Mycroft? Whose Mycroft? And why would he be mad about people accepting who you are?"

"Oh, Mycroft's my git of a brother who secretly doubles as the Queen of England when needs be." said Sherlock trying to keep a straight face but failing miserably. "And he's the whole reason I'm here. He convinced my parents to think I'm going through a phase and that the bloody countryside is the cure for all of my problems. He hoped that I would change my mind about the hair and clothes once I started to receive scornful looks. But now that I know nobody gives a shit that calls for a celebratory piercing, no?"

"That's not fair, Sherlock. How could your parents just send you away like that? You're not doing anything wrong, you're just expressing yourself" John furrowed xir eyebrows with indignation. Only xe could manage to look outraged, apoplectic yet dainty and caring.

Sherlock thought he knew exactly why John was fussing over Sherlock and his reasons on starting the school year anew after break. John fears his parents would do the same to xir if they haven't done it already. Either John had already seen xir parents react badly to one of his siblings in a similar situation or xe'd been warned about the consequences of his actions before.

John is most definitely not a unisex name as it is commonly used on males. The name notwithstanding, the structure of xir face was ideal for expressing his ambiguous gender in that none of John's facial features were pronounced. Xir jaw, smooth and rounded accompanied by low cheekbones. The overall idea of John with xir hidden masculine qualities and the slight whisper of femininity had captivated Sherlock wholly.

Sherlock was almost positive John had been assigned male at birth. The appeal made John all the more irresistible knowing that xe had the right bits to satisfy Sherlock's more carnal needs. (Even if John lacked a throbbing cock Sherlock could hold hot and heavy in his hand, Sherlock would more than happily switch sides to please John.) It was very much like wanting to buy chocolate ice cream at the store but the when you're paying, the whole time you know it's actually vanilla ice cream inside the carton. Sherlock was getting the best of both worlds.

Dating had certainly never been Sherlock's forte nor has he ever been attracted to anyone before. But if he must chose between male or female, without a doubt he would have chosen men.

Nevertheless, Sherlock always worried if that ever became the case, he would be missing out on collecting data on the other gender. When placed in the same situation, men and women respond differently to physical and emotional stimulation and that was something Sherlock couldn't possibly pass on.

Sherlock was content with John's given genitalia and had no qualms with his sexuality which before today he thought only fell under homosexual. Sherlock found himself thinking if John were assigned as female when xe was born, Sherlock's feelings for xir wouldn't change in the slightest. He accepted (and yearned for) John and everything xe was. And even though Sherlock had only seen John in xir female state, a swarm of butterflies crowded his stomach picturing a manlier version of his John.

Then Sherlock became curious and thought if John behavior depended on what gender xe'd chosen to express himself that day. Would it change John's ideology in a conversation between them depending where on the gender spectrum xe was?

If everything worked out, Sherlock wouldn't have to experiment with women (the horror) and experience both gender's reactions in John. Oh John, his lovely John. Sherlock knew he sounded unbelievably cruel and selfish using John as an experiment but to Sherlock, that was the highest of compliments he was able to give.

John had been staring at Sherlock with a worried expression for the past handful of seconds. That's when Sherlock noticed he'd been creeping into his mind palace to devour any information he had on John.

To cut the pregnant pause, Sherlock spoke. "My parents are anything but fair, John. They would rather die showing me how far they're willing to go, that letting me continue my 'ruined' life and disgracing the Holmes name." sneered Sherlock, distaste dripping from his every word.

"I'm sorry about your parents." sympathized John, xir voice heavy with unnecessary guilt. "If it helps, I think you look fine just the way you are, although I'm a little concerned of your survival rate. Ink poising and all." Xir topaz eyes up beamed at Sherlock. John was finally summing up the courage to flirt with the roughed up teen.

"You don't need to be sorry about my poor excuse for parents, John. It's not like you did anything." Sherlock spoke in a smooth, gentle voice to pacify John's worries. John anxiously picked at xir nails, Sherlock, being the gentleman that he is, saw the opportunity to settle his black manicured fingers over John's jasmine scented hand. "Oh, John. Only you would go from apologizing on behalf of my parents to announcing me as good as dead from ink poisoning. You are truly magnificent John, unbelievably radiant."

  
John had adjusted to Sherlock's blatant flirting or lavish (and extremely complex) compliments now that John's face wasn't constantly changing from disbelief to embarrassment. "If you say so, Sherlock. But I'm serious when I say you have to be more careful on were you draw your pentagrams. Maybe next time, use paper when you're scaring Mabel with your ridiculously straight lines. Which by the way, I was informed there was one-to-one tutorial session taking place in the library with a certain Mr Holmes. So. Here I am." John smiled impishly and Sherlock felt the blood in his veins bubble and boil in anticipation.

He was quite impressed with John's crafty banter. "I'll keep that in mind for next time. However, I'd very much like you beside me while I'm terrorizing our secretary/adulteress. I'm less likely to cause any permanent damage with you there, John."

"Let's see how good of a teacher you are Mr Holmes and then perhaps I'll consider taking up your offer. Sound fair?"

Sherlock picked up the unspoken message snaked between John's words the lines. They had said that under no circumstance would John allow Sherlock to hang around xir like a hurt puppy if things went south.

"So, are you gonna show me how to make unfaithful office workers call the nearest priest or not? I'm waiting, Sherlock. Oh, that reminds me. Would you mind if we actually skipped the whole worshipping the dead part of the designs?"

For now, John giggled happily, ignoring the world had never been so easy for John as he solely followed xir frantic heart. **_SherlockSherlockSherlock_** sang the heart in xir chest with the sweet song of serenity and bliss. John had never experienced this before nor did xe ever think xe would.

Obsidian nails reluctantly slipped from the pleasant warmth of John's hand as they irritably fumbled with a messy notebook searching for unused paper. Sherlock ripped out several sheets of paper before he dug through his rucksack for something to write with. It would've been really awkward for Sherlock to have to ask John for something to write with but thankfully he found a pen from the dark pits of his bag.

Sherlock thought about what John said and he smiled so fiercely at John, he seriously believed his cheeks would spasm from the sudden strain he's put on them. "We can skip the ritualistic symbols yet to maintain a steady curriculum, we'll have to make up time with three dimensional phallic figures." If there were an Olympic gold medal for smugness, Sherlock would've taken them all.

John schooled his face somewhere between a neutral and partly amused expression after Sherlock's proposition. Slowly, (and inevitably) xir resolve faded and a sly quirk of xir lips made Sherlock's heart relentlessly thrum within it's cage of bones.

"That's fine," answered John with a voice of indifference but the cheeky, remarkably beautiful bastard continued. "but only if the teacher himself provides a thorough presentation of his phallic designs and structures. You do want your only, not to mention favorite student to succeed don't you?"

 _Dear god and everything that is sweet and holy in the world_ , thought Sherlock, his mind caught in the tail end of a whirlwind. Not only was John making Sherlock promise xir a private drawing session to take place behind closed doors but Sherlock had underestimated John's ability to mess with his head. The blonde had gotten mind numbingly spectacular at reducing Sherlock into a puddle of babbling nonsense within the last fifteen minutes. _That tease_ , moaned Sherlock. _I need more John Watson now!_

"Yes, of course. I simply cannot allow that gorgeous student of mine to fail, so if I must preform a live demonstration, it would be my honor to do so." Sherlock said with a conniving smile as he placed a hand above his heart dramatically. Then he uncapped the same pen as in the morning and rolled it over in John's direction. "Let's draw."

Drawing with Sherlock was equivalent to seeing who could scoff the loudest, fighting pettily over who gets the pen when another one sat less than a meter away, and innocent (ha ha ha! Yeah right) touches that just happened to linger.

Sherlock started teaching John by drawing a completed doodle. That way, John could get a rough idea what order he had to go in when it was his turn. Then, Sherlock started the series of interloping squiggles they were working on over again but this time he would explain the first several steps in detail for John's sake.

Sherlock did hate to repeat himself. Why couldn't people be smart enough to listen the first time around? Howbeit, whenever John asked Sherlock to go over a step or explain why the hell he had to go through all that trouble. Sherlock lacked his usual knack for insults and berating when it came to John. Sherlock albeit annoyed, would huff out the instructions once again and John would snicker lowly at how cute Sherlock looked when he acted like a petulant child.

The more Sherlock denied he was positively not acting childish in any way, John would cackle even louder until Sherlock gave in and both of them had to brace themselves against the table while they furiously giggling at each other.

And since they were sharing a pen (because that was a great idea from the beginning), whenever Sherlock would criticize John it was always followed by the immediate snatching of said pen. Sherlock couldn't stand imperfection whether it was his or someone else's, so he pounced the moment anything didn't meet the Sherlockian regulations of design.

John flailed xir arms in the air every time trying to reach for the pen Sherlock was so unfairly holding out of John's limited reach. (Damn his short arms!) Sometimes, John would get excruciatingly close to Sherlock and xir perfume distracted Sherlock enough to lower his arms.

That's when John took the pen back into xir hands and fixed the bloody drawing himself. Isn't that what the lessons were for, anyways? So _xe_ could learn how to draw and not so Sherlock could do the work for xir.

John looked at the clock hanging on the wall and noticed there were about three minutes left to the lunch period. Xe wanted, no needed to leave Sherlock with something memorable because honestly, John wasn't special. Not like Sherlock.

John might not be as smart as Sherlock but he had caught on during their time spent together how well Sherlock reacted to skin stimulation. It could work in xir advantage if everything went alright.

By mistake (and by that xe means completely on purpose), John deviated from the line he had been instructed to trace. Like a flash, Sherlock instinctively grabbed for the pen in John's hand. This time, however, John had made no efforts to keep Sherlock away and before John could count to three, Sherlock had placed it beyond reach. _Perfect,_ thought John. _This is going to be a piece of cake._

Sherlock playfully waggled his eyebrows make his victory clear to John but Sherlock didn't know John had already started to play dirty way before him.

With years of experience (thank you Harry), John credibly faked a sigh of defeat. Xe sat back sulking into the plastic chair and crossed xir arms over xir chest petulantly. For John's final move, xe threw in a slight pout to completely grab Sherlock's attention.

John could scream that was how thrilled he was. The rough and tough sex god was eating out of xir hand, Sherlock actually believed the act xe'd put on. Wasn't Sherlock supposed to be a genus or something?

Sherlock smiled wickedly as he brought the loose sheets of paper closer to him and began lecturing John on xir tedious mistakes. The black pen made a strikingly beautiful contrast on Sherlock's milky skin, John had noticed while xe watched Sherlock's bent form scribble on the lined paper.

John had Sherlock right where xe wanted. Sherlock's tinted hair curled down the right half of his head which, coincidently, was the side John sat on. Always the genius, John carefully leaned into Sherlock until xir chest was pressed up against the right side of Sherlock's muscular back.

Never has John seen someone stop what they were doing as quickly as Sherlock did the second their bodies touched and delicious intoxicating heat flowed between them. John noticed whenever xe breathed, the tiny hairs on Sherlock's skin would stand on end and small shivers ran through the expanse of the slender body beneath xir.

So of course, John sighed as dramatically as xe could to warrant more of a reaction from Sherlock causing xir breath to tickle the curls on the nape of Sherlock's neck.

"Sherlock, that's not fair and you know that. How am I supposed to learn if you make the revisions for me?" John whispered centimeters away from Sherlock's ear in a supposedly annoyed voice. However, xir voice sounded an octave lower than usual and John managed to get the words to roll off of xir tongue like orange-blossom honey. Sweet, seductive but unassuming all at once.

How proud John felt when xe felt a rumbling beneath him, Sherlock growled hungrily. Sherlock wanted more,no needed more if they were to go by the way Sherlock was passionately bucking his hips beneath the table. Sherlock, the poor dear, tried to speak, his mouth would begin to form the words but his brain just couldn't co-operate. John had that much power over Sherlock.

Naturally this was about the time John finished the physically torture and began with the more psychologic approach. "Now, now. This can be solved very easily if you listen like a good boy. You can give me the pen now and let me finish what's left of the design, call it a day. And of course we'll meet back here tomorrow for our next class Mr Holmes but by then you'll have learned your lesson, right?" With xir index finger, John ran xir finger down Sherlock's arm that had been sans leather jacket within the first five minuted in John's presencee. "However, if that sounds inconvenient in any way, there's always a _hard_ way Mr Holmes."

John placed a delicate finger on Sherlock's shoulder and using the light dragging of xir finger nail, John elicited needy moans from the rebellious teen. John had managed to turn the school's new 'delinquent' into silly putty within minutes and xe had barely touched the man.

John's teasing finger stopped to rest just above the varied collection of bracelets and bands on Sherlock's wrist. Xe drew effortless circles on the lily white inside of Sherlock's right arm. He breathed evenly next to Sherlock's ear, his perfume encasing them in a bubble of it's subtle flowery extract.

John's heart was beating a mile a minute for more than one reason and xe enjoyed each reason more than the last. Not only was xe lying on top of Sherlock (in a library of all places! How kinky.) but John was whispering into Sherlock's ear as if xe did this every day. And that right there is what excited John the most. The fact that Sherlock had cracked John's outer shell and brought out the rare side of xir so easily.

Sherlock writhed miserably in his seat shamelessly moaning at least with the decency of being silent. John knew where the conversation would be heading and another glance at the clock confirmed his suspicions. Sherlock was about to experience the devastating of xir punishments.

"What would the hard way be, John?" John hummed thoughtfully, xir chest vibrated on Sherlock's back. With no restraint, Sherlock's hips surged forward, gasping for air his pale hand gripped the edge of the table. Sherlock then placed the hand over his hardening cock and repeatedly pressed the heel of his hand down for increased friction.

John took xir sweet time to answer, counting down the seconds on the clock. Xe continue tracing the simple pattern on Sherlock's silky skin. Xe was also lightly brushing xir chest against Sherlock's partially exposed back.

The contrast of knitted wool and flimsy cotton had Sherlock ready to burst because just as John began to speak, the bell rang for class. The growl that came from Sherlock's mouth was feral, frustrated, and mostly upset. For the second time that day, the bell had separated the teens from spending more time together but this time it had worked in John's favor. The lack of time had given xir the idea to impress one Sherlock Holmes.

"Looks like you'll have to find out some other time, Mr Holmes." John said innocently as xe pulled away from the whining mess that was Sherlock. Not only had John made xirself memorable (no doubt about it) but he had shown Sherlock not only was xe interested but xe wasn't afraid to take action. "Until tomorrow."

Sherlock growled once again and slammed his hand on the tabletop. His eyes met John's, desperate need and arousal had blown his pupils wide. Sherlock's lips had the usual signs of pent up sexual frustration, red, swollen, shiny with saliva. The once pale cheeks were now spread with a deep crimson color.

John had never enjoyed being with someone as much as xe did being around Sherlock. Before xe left, John looked at Sherlock one last time and gave the hyperventilating boy a small smile. Sure, it hadn't been an extravagant or toothy smile, but it was the best John could do to show Sherlock just how much he had changed xir life in one day.

And the moment Sherlock saw John's timid but entirely genuine smile, his chest stopped heaving and Sherlock smiled lopsidedly back at John.

That was all the confirmation John needed to know that he'd changed Sherlock's life for the better as well. And while they might not have something permanent at the moment, nor did they know if they would ever have one. But John did know that together, they would help each other match the inside with the outside.

John would be with Sherlock the whole way when he began to discover the buried parts of him that have been dying to be released. Xe could only hope Sherlock would do the same because despite John having been genderfluid for a greater part of his life didn't mean xe'd discovered everithing there is to know about himself. For example, he has a thing for geniuses disguised as idiots in punk clothing.

"Yes, John. Until tomorrow." said Sherlock wistfully. John turned the corner with the heavy temptation of wanting to look back. But knew xe didn't need to. John liked to believe xe had already started to win Sherlock's heart piece by piece.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading and baring with me during my impossible hiatus but I made up for it with a somewhat long chapter. I promise you guys I worked on this a little bit every day but after school started it became nearly impossible to juggle everything at the same time.
> 
> Anyways, I love you guys for reading even if you don't enjoy it (which I really hope you do by the way) and if you do enjoy please comment if you would like to see anything in the next chapter and so forth. You never know, your ideas may end up in the next few chapters...
> 
> Also, I am so sorry if this chapter might seem a ittle boring but I needed to get the back story in for the later chapters to make sense. So bear with me and I at least hope I made it worthy enough. ;)
> 
> See ya xxx

If tables had the ability to talk, Sherlock Holmes table would've been hashing vociferous insults at the indefatigable teen. Because for the last twenty minutes or so of class his pen had become his only source of entertainment, which was bad news for the pen and anyone in the 10 meter radius from him. A good five minutes have passed and Sherlock has yet to notice that his hands and pen have turned into a indiscernible blur banging against the side of the table.

Sherlock estimated that he'd began to find a fix to his neuron killing agony after he had written off his deductions of everyone in class (twice). He also took the liberty of finishing a week's worth of course work.

The worst had happened when Sherlock saw he had burned through his list of pre-approved entertainments --well, the ones that wouldn't get him sent to the Headmaster's office on his first day of school. It was a curious feeling for Sherlock to want to be on his best behavior. To put his bitting remarks aside and keep his mouth shut, and especially in the hellhole of school.

And it wasn't because he wanted to prove to Mycroft that his appearance has no correlation with his behavior. It also wasn't because he wanted to keep Mycroft distracted with the lack of calls from the headmaster reporting unknown explosive brought into the school lab or suspicious explosions.

His new look on life was more for John's sake. He wanted to proved to xir that all stereotypes aside, Sherlock wasn't the sort for sticking one to the man. He wouldn't dare waste his time, energy, and breath to purposefully defy those who consider themselves superior (ha, they wished) to Sherlock. It wasn't his fault that his brain worked on impulses and that he lacked any filter between his vocal chords and brain. But he would sew his mouth shut if it meant John would be able see past all the odds stacked against him.

As he sat on the edge of his desk seat chipping away the paint from his once manicured nails, all he could do was wait until the bell rang. Then it would at least be dismissal and he would get to go back to the country house.

Sherlock always cringed when he talked about his current residence in Surrey because he could never --would never consider it his home.

How could it possibly be his home if it was where Mycroft had brought him to suck the life out of Sherlock. That house was where he had been sent to bury the hope he had struggled to build after he last ripped off the tourniquet from his arm and fell into a dreamless sleep.

Moreover, he was supposedly expected to get his act together and become exemplary husband material. From all the drivel he'd read and scoffed over about because of course 'home is where the heart is.' Because all he's ever known about Holme's residences whether they were considered houses or homes are the fact that they were just glorified roofs over his head.

Another thing that irked him were the constant parcels that came addressed to him from London. They were constant reminders of how shallow, and blind his parents were to his simple wishes of solidarity. His mother most certainly spent most of her free time hand selecting the best from Savile Row's latest collection hoping her son would reconsider his usage of frayed jeans and second hand shirts. Sherlock thought --no, he knew he would eventually burst from the vile resentment that mercilessly stripped the lining his stomach.

His murder-provoking-hair-pulling-all-consuming-fiasco began with the casual tapping of his pen. Whenever the distress in his head became to muddled and human for him to understand the table would take a slight beating.

Then what was once periodic tapping came in more frequent spells, the clicking sounds reverberating throughout his desk.

Even so, Sherlock was still somewhere within the range of  _I'm so bored, please save me from this hell'_ and _'if you make another sound it'll be your last.'_ But in his defense, almost every other student in the classroom have dealt with their fair share of boredom so out of countryside curtesy, Sherlock guessed they were trying their hardest not to bash his head in.

But small mercies meant nothing to Sherlock as his brain insisted to put everything on it's head, turn inside out, or bolster even the most insignificant worries (what if John hadn't liked the cologne I was wearing? Did John expect something else from the lunch date?-).

The tapping sped up along with the intensity in which Sherlock thwacked the pen against the table. His thoughts churned violently in his head like an ocean preparing for an unavoidable storm.

Oh, the migraine he was getting --or better said, he already had was exorbitantly insufferable. Sherlock continued to hammer the cap of the pen against the rickety table providing an even nicer, and louder soundtrack for his the sake of the class' entertainment.

A good eighty percent of the class sent glares in Sherlock's direction but he pointedly ignored them. He has better, more important things to occupy his energy with than worrying about the simpletons sitting in the class room.

Sherlock wanted to solely focus on anything pertaining to John, and John only. He has been the only person to ever accomplish the impossible and surprise Sherlock in a positive way --which in itself deserves extreme merit.

Sherlock Holmes does not get surprised, it is even rarer for him to accept the lovely miracle that is John. If he were one of those soppy, love sick dramatists, he would say it was fate that put them in the office that morning or some thing like that.

But Sherlock is and will always be a man of science so there had to be a reasonable explanation for his impulsive feelings and inexplicable lust. Somewhere there has to be a logical formula, equation, theory that can put everything into perspective for Sherlock. He needed cold hard facts, the sort of facts he could use to organize some of the chaos bashing the walls of his head.

The bell for dismissal rang before Sherlock attempted to see how long it took before he seriously strained his carpal bones from the swatting motion. He sprung from his seat as if he had been set on fire, and sighs rang from all throughout the room. With reason, everyone was desperate to get away from the pen abusing freak as a tumult of others flew from the classroom even before Sherlock did.

The students running out of the classroom didn't even wait to grab their homework sheets, while the others took their sweet time packing their bags. All the same, no one wanted to be caught leaving english literature with Sherlock Holmes, that much was for sure.

Well, that was no problem because all Sherlock wanted to do was to burst out of the school doors and make his way back to the house. Preferably before he turned into an icicle.

He made the executive decision of skipping his locker and not to drop off his books. Not only would it get him back to his experiments faster but it would allow him to skip the hallway ambush.

Actually, that was a lie. Sherlock didn't want to risk catching sight of John in the hallways because then he would be in serious trouble. If he had just entered the outer rings of insanity just thinking about the way John affected him, there's no telling how Sherlock would react at the house so soon after a sighting of such perfection.

What if John tried to talk to him? He would surely be done in for, he can't have that. It was enough he would have to go back to Mycroft sniffing around for anything he can get his grubby hands on. He didn't need the fat git to corner him when he was still slightly hot and bothered by the most wonderful human being on planet earth. Sherlock wouldn't dare to share John with Mycroft. That was unquestionably a given.

The air had mildly warmed up since he had last been outside that morning making the temperature more or less tolerable for traveling in. He hitched his school bag onto his shoulders and began plowing his way through the knee-high weeds and questionable mud that lined the poorly paved roadways.

****

He arrived at the estate fifteen minutes later, give or take, to find the front door not only unlocked but slightly ajar. Either Mycroft saw him as he neared the house from his almighty throne up on the second floor study or Sherlock needed to have a serious talk with his brother about his dependency on CCTV's and how they should only be used in London.

The warm heat of the house snaked past the threshold whispering the promise of heat and comfort into Sherlock's ear. However much he may have been tempted to enter the fire lit drawing room or the rest of the central heated paradise within, he knew that a meeting with his brother hanged above him on a straining thread.

When the time comes to address the queen (notice how he didn't specify what type of queen he meant), one must always be alert, and prepared for the sudden slue of hostility and stubbornness.

Sherlock was exhausted. Not only with the long, cold, tedious day he'd had (except for his time with John of course) but he was exhausted of Mycroft. The tiresome hints on gentlemanly etiquette, (no, Sherlock will not use ten different forks on the rare occasion he sits down to eat dinner) or the not-so subtle reminders of who he and his family were (yes, he knows he's a Holmes he's not stupid) and for him to acknowledge that it's still not too late to salvage the honorable reputation of not only the Holmes name, but of poor, old Sherlock. Because as Sherlock had been already reliably informed, his parents and the whole douchey-I-am-greater-than-thou community expected Sherlock, not Mycroft, to carry on the Holmes name.

Maybe it was because they saw that Mycroft had a future and children tend to put an end to successful futures. It could also be a desperate attempt of placing him into another family's care under the pretense of providing good-looking, and not to mention wealthy offsprings? heirs? devil's spawn? Take your pick as children were the last thing on Sherlock's mind.

All this pressure was being set on him when his parents couldn't even trust him to finish the school year in London considering their main fear in regards to his rougher 'attitude' was that he would impregnate one of the many wanna-be sluts that threw themselves at Sherlock and asking him to show them the dark side. That was when Sherlock cemented in his head that there was no way he could ever have feelings with anyone from the female species. Males were much less complicated although they did tend to be dimwitted brutes at time.

Mycroft would never understand, he wouldn't even try to understand why Sherlock preferred to invest his serotonin with a person of the same sex instead of providing the Earth with miniature versions of himself.

Mycroft wouldn't understand his affinity for the feel of narrow hips under his hands instead of curved, padded ones. How he shivered at the thought of callused hands traveling up and down his torso, the weight of solid chest above his, a dusting of golden hair visible through the cool moonlight.

Mycroft would never understand his hatred of breasts, the way just stuck out from the rest of the body, dangling and jiggling with every move. And what he hated the most was how they prevented him from feeling the steady beat of his partner's heart against his. Sherlock wouldn't be able to feel, to connect with the life source of the human he adored most, of the person who had changed his entire life all because of some mammary glands.

Most of all, thought Sherlock, Mycroft wouldn't understand John, and he wasn't ready to speak to anyone about John just yet and his entire day, now possibly his life revolved around John.

All he had though about in his classes either he wanted to or not had been John. John with his sun colored hair. John wearing those leggings that stretched over xir calves sinfully. John and his passion for the most curious of topics that some Sherlock could find himself commenting positively on.

As he said before, every discernible thought had been focused or at least inspired by John. Now what he couldn't do was let Mycroft catch wind of his newest interest, addiction, whatever you want to call it because he knew what step his family would take next.

Rest assured, Sherlock would find himself in some type of day program for unstable youths, perhaps in London, maybe even in America if his family was exceptionally desperate to squash any rumors of sodomy within the Holmes family.

Or if Father spoke to Mummy with reason as he is ought to do, Sherlock might find himself spending the next several years of his life holed up in his grandmama's estate in Northern Ireland.

He couldn't let that happen, Sherlock couldn't let the people that called themselves his parents decided what is best for him based off of their unfulfilled desires and oppress his spirit, his ingenuity. Sherlock promised himself right that second that he wouldn't let that happen, not over his cold, dead body.

John wasn't like the drugs. He was nothing like heroin which only served to sterilize the raw, breaking fissures embedded deep within the dark inner linings of his sinew and bones. Heroin was cold and impersonal whilst John reminded Sherlock of the smell of grass after rain. John's timid smile had reached the gate of Sherlock's boundaries only to be welcomed with opened arms and a cup of tea.

He knew what John was. Sherlock finally knew how to put it into words --to some extent.

If he thought about it, John could be considered an addition. An incredible addition in his life that could essentially be either the making or braking of the last vestiges of his sanity.

But all the same, he was amenable to through it all away just to find out. Not because he was treating this as an experiment but more so because he saw John as a risk worth taking. And dear Newton's three laws of relativity did he hope this didn't backfire on him.

While Sherlock claimed he hadn't been a drug addict as he was hourly injecting himself with opium, he knew he wouldn't make the same thing with John. He isn't talking about keeping an unnatural distance with John, no.

Sherlock is determined to commit himself John, he'd sworn up and down to not question the real reason John has had such a significant impact in his life. Sherlock even went as far as chastising himself beforehand in the very slight case he let John slip through his grasp. It would be the ending of Sherlock, an abomination if he lost this new source of sunlight.

It hasn't been sixteen hours since their first meeting and Sherlock had smiled more, talked more (willingly), he'd even laughed unlike any other time in the last eighteen months. Sherlock felt like a stranger in his own body, he felt as if he'd been taken over by another happier, more optimistic, and stupidly naive hormone riddle teenager that spent their time groveling at the feet of their crushes.

Sherlock, although he may banish you to the seven hells for accusing him so, is not so far from becoming just that, a normal, imperfect teenager that has made himself believe he'd been the only exception, that he would get by in his life believing in his iron heart.

However, now that he though about, it wasn't the fact John got through to his inner thoughts, but it was how John had gotten through. Why? How had his brain decided to just trust this random stranger an hope for the best? It couldn't have been love at first sight. Ridiculous. Coincidences never happen as the universe is never too lazy to let them occur. But what if it had been a combination of Sherlock subconsciously yearning and searching for someone that not only understood and accepted him, but embraced even the more jagged and abrasive sides of his character. John had just been in the right place at the right time and that was hardly a coincidence, right?

But right as he turned another corner with his discoveries, he hit another wall. Just as he'd found John, his marvelous quirks, and incredible tolerance better than any drug, nobody else with the last name of Holmes would agree.

Sherlock knew, he just knew that the second his family (yes, that included Fatcroft) found out about John and xir genderfluidity, not only would it be the end for Sherlock in every sense of the word, but for John as well.

Mycroft was more than capable of coming up with some bullshit law banning the indecision of gender amongst the citizens of England and that one should be happy with their assigned gender in the honour for Queen and Country. It was with lies like that that Mycroft fueled himself with. Forget about the excessive helpings of cake and biscuits, Mycroft was as fat as he was because of all the lies he gobbled up on a daily basis and that was a fact.

But Sherlock would hopefully severely harm (that was code word for kill, behead, exsanguinate, all the same) Mycroft before it would reach the attention of anyone of those minions that ran around London for his brother. But surely there was no doubt in either of the Holmes brother's head that a crazy irrational plan would cross the bureaucrat's mind. Mycroft didn't believe in mercy, John wouldn't stand a chance, but neither would he if Mycroft played his cards just right.  
  
The evil chill of irremediable trepidation niggled at the back of his senses as Sherlock padded onto the hardwood floors of the foyer. It was adjacent to one of the many drawing rooms so from where he stood he had a direct view of leather couches with skillfully preserved antiques displayed in such a way to showcase their wealth even more.

Although Sherlock could here the tell-tale crackle of a lit fire from somewhere on the first floor it seemed for naught. There was an unpleasantly cutting, crisp mist coating the surface of everything in its presence.

There could only be one explanation for this and Sherlock sent his first official prayer to an official deity that this would be the first time in his life that he would be wrong about something.

But of course he had to see Mycroft and his gingery self arranged disgustingly casual on the leather seat. Which unmistakably had an identical double positioned meters away --oh, and it directly faced Mycroft's seat.

Mycroft was still dressed in the same three piece suit he'd been wearing that morning, and honestly, Sherlock was trying his best not to vomit all over the ill fitting clothing. Hasn't any told Mycroft that his shockingly red hair doesn't pair well with the deeper tones of midnight blue? If not, someone should really tell him, better yet, Sherlock would be delighted to do the honors.

Sherlock internally shook his head, he practically heard the screams of the buttons that had the misfortune of holding together his brother's shirt. The tortured buttons pleaded for someone to help them from being stretched, teared, pulled by a land dwelling walrus. It was a shameful way to go, so Sherlock sympathized with them.

For all the times he's claimed to be smarter than Sherlock, the fat bastard still couldn't seem to understand that with all the cake he shoves in his mouth, he eventually has to buy new suits. Lately, his waist band had been expanding faster than a inflating ballon.

Mycroft's venomous sneer sent explosive shivers down Sherlock's spine which was saying something. Sherlock wasn't one to get easily scared, and right now, he was about ready to shit his pants.

 _Think of John. Lovely, wonderful John who makes your heart race at impossible speeds. That makes you feel better than any other drug, cigarette, alcohol, you've every tried. You mustn't let Mycroft ruin the only good, pure thing in your life,_ Sherlock reasoned, pleaded with himself as he hesitantly continued to near death in human form.

"Ahh, Sherlock, I see you've come back from school in one piece. I take it your day went well, then no? Anything interesting you would like to share?"

And there it was. As clear as the nose on his face, Mycroft's condescending, 'I am holier than god himself' voice. Sherlock already hated every word that came out of Mycroft's mouth, but he became bloodthirsty (only for Mycroft's blood, though) when the fat troll spoke down to him like he were seven years old again. Like they say, (whoever they were) history repeats itself, which for a fact is not always a good thing.

"No, Fatcroft --I mean, Mycroft. Apologies, it's been a long day." He knew it was a low and dirty blow to throw especially when he was nearing the age of adulthood. But when you're playing dirty with the most unfair, cold-blooded member of the British government, you try to get in as many punches as possible.

"I just get so confused sometimes. You know me. Names, such a waste of space, tedious to say the least." he scoffed for added effect.

"How pleasant of you, brother dear. Do you have any more of those woeful gibes up your sleeve? Or would you be so kind as to tell me about your day. I asked you a question and you do know how I worry." If there was something about Mycroft Sherlock infinitesimally found commendable was his capability to remain calm, expressionless in the presence of company. Whether it was Mummy or the Prime Minister, no one has yet to see Mycroft tearing at the seams, both figuratively and physically --that poor cashmere lining, how it must beg for release.

Like Mycroft and his overwhelming obesity, Sherlock had a flaw as well. He had a tendency of making an even bigger ass of himself whenever he felt something he care about or owned was being even remotely threatened by someone else. It dawned on Sherlock how stupid he was being, for a person who claimed to be above sentiment and emotions, he did a stellar job at revealing his own self-destruct button for the bits and pieces he'd allowed himself to care for, to feel deeply for.

"Question? What question? There is nothing you need to ask me that you don't already know for yourself. So if you'll excuse me --"

Sherlock felt quite proud at how well he'd countered Mycroft's derision. it had been a suitable Sherlockian answer if he did say so himself. At one point in the midst of his (controlled, mind you) hysteria, he'd turned away from Mycroft already intending to flee upstairs. But once more, Mycroft was more than ready to stick his sausage-like fingers into problems that had nothing to do with him nor the safety of the British citizens he so humbly claims to protect.

"So nothing interesting happened to you today at school? How curious as you always have either scathing remarks, or a delightful assortment of complaints you like to share with anyone in a ten yard radius after coming home from school." Mycroft's scorn was only going to get worse from that moment on no matter what crass methods he would have to take to continue goading Sherlock.

Sherlock was certainly not going to answer back, he had nothing to say to him --correction, nothing to so say that wouldn't leave him from feeling as shallow as Mycroft). And Mycroft wasn't stupid of course. He knew that if he wanted to get answers out of Sherlock he needed to continue to push Sherlock over the edge, over his breaking point. So even though there may have been a pregnant pause, the intensity in which Mycroft continued their conversation in was the same as before.

"Tell me Sherlock, did you meet any potential...friends? I would've thought it to be hard, perhaps even verging on impossible with your insistence to behave and present yourself so indecently And that foul attitude of your's does nothing to at least make up for the rest of your atrocities." Mycroft raised his barely-there eyebrows high on his forehead, boring his arctic eyes full of clear-cut accusations and repressed disgust directly towards his younger brother. Sherlock wouldn't be able to stay any longer if he wanted to keep his composure.

However, he couldn't, he wouldn't let Mycroft have the last word. Sherlock would not walk out of that room like the coward, the weakling, the failure he is made out to be. Because underneath it all, the make up, the countless bottles of hair dye, and even his collection of metal studded leather anything, Sherlock had a heart, Sherlock had a beating heart, just like everyone else. And just like everyone else, his heart pumped blood through four different chambers, through an aorta and out into the delicate weaving of arteries and veins. He was a living, breathing, sentient creature that just like everyone else, had been given the opportunity to make a life for himself.

He was trying to do just that but everyone was pulling at him, smashing everything he could eventually learn to care for into smithereens. Sherlock was being sent into a state of oblivion where one day he wouldn't find be able to himself if he didn't learn to fight back, if he didn't eventually turn around and face Mycroft, until he didn't scream his lungs raw with frustration. He needed to kick and yell at Mycroft, and at his parents every step of the way, at every time they told him to change his shirt, to put a hat on when they went outside until his hair grew even again.

It was Sherlock's time to fight despite how sure he'd been all this time he had been fighting. No, what he _had_ been doing was just coming off as another stubborn teenager trying to fulfill the credits needed before entering proper adulthood in the defying the universe category. Sherlock knew that now, he could see now what his parents had been talking about when ever they would fight him over the many hair, wardrobe, and lately, make up issues.

His best comeback had been 'try and stop me' and from a teenagers standpoint it was a damn good comeback if truth be told. But he hadn't even taken the time to think about how ineffective this method of sarcastic tongue-lashing would make to be. What he really needed accomplishing was getting through his family's thick skull. To get them to understand how trapped he had felt in his body before he took life into his own hands, before when he was made to wear the thousand pound suits.

His parents would never understand the feeling of intense oppression, or the inability to do anything with the life you were given but serve as a puppet for others. And his favorite part about being forced to sit through yet another outrageously pretentious event was hearing his parents complain about how they got stuck with such a troublesome child and what they wouldn't do for him to change.

Sherlock would make his parents see how inevitable it had been for him to search for an outlet to his frustrations. To search for something that wouldn't judge him and his upper class problems, but at the same time, he wanted to find something that would potentionally make up for everything that had been stolen from him. Sherlock dreamed to se the day when the noose kept around his neck by his parents would lossen it's vice-like grip under his own conditions, to become free on his terms and no longer serve under anyone else's commands.

Other teens his age would've done the obvious, you know, hanging out with their friends more, putting off school work, or simply not caring about their grades in general. Since Sherlock didn't, actually have any friends, option one served no purpose. He had no one to escape to, no one he could feign to be for as long as his life continued to be shitty. As far as Sherlock was concerned, his only option left was to fully devote himself into _the work_ , where he willingly began to rid himself of all human contact fully aware of the mistake he was submitting himself to. He knew, Sherlock knew what he really needed, and what he really needed was someone to pull him out of the bottomless trench he'd been thrown into.

Sherlock always thought it appropriate for him to laugh at the memory of his first high, and also at the series of avalanches that followed soon thereafter. Would you believe everything, the smoking, the drugs, the sexual favors all started after he'd left his London townhouse in a huff. He'd been on the brink of madness for sometime now but when he eventually grew tired of that night's screaming match with his parents, that was it, game over.

They were always accusing him of being a heartless bastard that doesn't bother to take anyone else's needs into consideration, and they were right, a hundred percent right. Sherlock couldn't give a rat's ass about people's needs and what not but neither cic his parents so how exactly were they different from each other?

Why should he be the one to give and give and give? --no-one else had even thought to consider about giving him what he wanted most, the freedom to be himself --which, yes, did include the additional body modifications but nothing drastic --yet.

It was a few blocks later that he ran into a shaggy haired kid whose name he would learn he could never forget, Victor Trevor. Besides being the only boy (at the moment, he hadn't met John of course) Sherlock had ever considered sparing a second glance without the intention of commenting on his ineptitude, Victor saw Sherlock, he really saw him.

Victor saw the purple bruises under Sherlock's sunken eyes. The already too small clothes hanging off of a malnourished skeleton with a greasy mop of curls styled recklessly even by today's standard. Sherlock as a whole made Victor's job all the more easier, so when Victor caught sight what was left of Sherlock, he didn't hesitate to offer the boy the only thing he knew would make the pain go away even if it only lasted a little while.

At first, they started with the mundane smoking of a  few joints --we'll call it an introduction to the world of drugs. Every other day Victor and Sherlock would meet in the skip between Lonbard and Cannon street. The boys would smoke a rolled joint not speaking a word to each other, and just like that they would part ways right after Victor supplied Sherlock with enough cigarettes to get him through the next day or so and Sherlock forked over a small fortune to make sure Victor held up his side of their unspoken deal.

After a fortnight, mid-joint, Sherlock shamelessly told Victor he wanted something stronger. Why should he be ashamed of his body's cravings? He was so often being chastisied for ignoring his body and what it supposedly wanted from him.

That was when the marijuana became ecstasy. And while ecstasy was great at making him feel calm, and relaxed, and free. The drug lasted for seconds in bloodstream giving him less of a high than the shitty weed Victor gave him. The blue pills got him high quickly and only for a moment before they were gone the next.

He needed that exact same feeling but for longer periods of time, and somehow in a way he could control his doses, pills were tedious aleady pre-dosed for you. Where was the fun in that? The bloody genius Victor apperantely was came to one of Sherlock and his' meetings loaded with baggies of heroin because somehow, Sherlock not even today had figured it out, had seen that ecstasy hadn't been enough to calm down the voices.

Sherlock had found the right sensation with the ecstasy, he simply needed the feeling to last and Victor wasted no time to croon sweet, assuring words into Sherlock's ear as he plunged the needle into the crook of his arm. Of course Victor didn't care how badly Sherlock had been ruining his life the past couple of weeks, nor did he care about the incurable pain he'd put the stubborn man-child through. All he cared about really was the fifty quid he got to shove into his back pocket seconds before he handed Sherlock the joints, or the pills, and now, the fine white powder with words synonymous to death written on it.

But there was Victor, the one who had convinced Sherlock that he'd seen the real him, that he knew exactly what the genius needed to take the edge off was had told him the answer to all of his problems was heroin. He made Sherlock believe he needed heroin to relieve the crushing weight of reality off of his chest, the eternal burden drowning his lungs, and for a long time, Sherlock had no reason to doubt him. He, at the time, had been just another seventeen year old that was frustrated with the futile search for the approval of his family. Sherlock just wanted his parents and Mycroft to see how important his closet of solid black and silver really was to him. And well, besides the teeny tiny part that really did get satisfaction from watching them squirming with hesitance when they saw yet another combination of black denim sitting atop of black leather, piled onto even more black.

Sherlock wanted to look his parents in the eye and see acceptance, that yes, Sherlock may be...different and have certain quirks that set him apart but that didn't detract from his brilliance. Nevertheless, his parents only saw the world through black and white glasses so he either was seen as Sherlock, a perfect member in todays society worthy for any woman's hand in marriage, or Sherlock, the human being that hides behind his depressing wardrobe. His parents chose the latter, they saw their own son as a low-life, disgusting waste of space that needs to be rightened before things go too far, so if God was on their side, He would help Sherlock find the path to rejoin the wonders of the affluent society.

What a load of bullshit was all Sherlock could say about that because besides the fact about him being an atheist, there was no part of him that needed to be fixed. Even if that was the truth, his parent's constant nagging and berating had secured him a front row ticket on the joyous roller coaster of drugs not to mention the whole withdrawal/rehab ride. Sherlock had no one but his parents to thank for enabling his drug habits because it wasn't as if he'd resorted to drugs by himself. It was his parents that drove him out of the house to ally himself with Victor. If it weren't for his parent's new sport at seeing who can create the more cringe worthy comment of the day, Sherlock wouldn't have searched for something stronger than marijuana and would've never discover the wonderful numbing sensation of heroin.

The last part was actually his fault because it was he who had craved ecstasy and the effect it had had on his body. Also, it had been him who'd wanted the high to last longer so when Victor brought the drugs up a notch, logically the next step was heroin.

And heroin it was.

xxx

Sherlock was repulsed at the idea of having to speak to Mycroft again and play along with his shallow mind games but he needed to get Mycroft off pf his scent. If not, all hell would surely ensue and Sherlock was in enough binding torture as it was.

Sherlock only bothered to muster the energy to to turn his head in Mycroft's direction, any more movement on his behalf would've caused the cork holding back his thundering rage to pop. "I believe that doesn't concern you, Mycroft." growled Sherlock. His voice sounded low, dangerous, shrouded by his intense fury.

"Oh, it doesn't? However do you mean, brother mine. Despite the horrible monster you paint me to be, Sherlock, I actually care about your well being." Of all the times, Mycroft chose now to play the part of the concerned, more experienced older brother. Everyone else might fall victim to Mycroft's saccharine smile and honeyed voice, but Sherlock knew better, much better than to blindly believe those who have hurt him before.

"You could've fooled me, Mycroft." Sherlock said with a brittle smile. "Was that your way of showing how much you care that one day you came home and dragged me into a car and brought me to the middle of bloody nowhere? Or when you handed me over to the house staff so they could deal with my withdrawal and keep me off of the streets? Oh, and what about that time you brought your assholes for friends over to mock me into changing."

Sherlock's face grew stony and resigned but he still had a few choice words to say to Mycroft. "Because if that's how you plan to show me how great of a brother you can be, I would listen if I were you. Fuck off."

Almost instantly Sherlock felt the oxygen rush back into his lungs after many months of near suffocation. It was ridiculous how long he'd waited for the right time to scream those words into Mycroft's face. He wanted to be the first to see if anything or anyone could get Mycroft's uncaring exterior to crack. But mostly he needed to feel the weight of his oppression to be lifted off of his shoulders.

Although he face kept his face with the same indifferent neutrality, the once teasing glint in Mycroft's eyes faded. "I feel like I must apologize if you feel that way. If it's any consolation, it was never my intension to make you think such bad things about me, I simply wanted to show you, Sherlock that you can still be happy without resorting to those extreme measures of yours. But your right, I possibly could have used more courteous methods, but as they say, hindsight is 20/20."

Sherlock was tired of listening to Mycroft's and his load of bullshit even if he went to his grave professing it was an act of familial duty. "Whatever you say, Mycroft, I really don't care right now, nor will I ever. Just leave me alone." sighed Sherlock using the last modicum of his energy. He faced the wall opposite of his brother, facing away from the repulsion that clouded the air, facing away from the physical reminder of his previous delusions.

Mycroft opened his mouth to speak even taking an intake of breath before Sherlock whispered, "Please, Mycroft. Drop it." Thankfully, Mycroft ceded letting Sherlock retreat into one of his many hiding places.

XXXXXXXXXXX

Sherlock dreaded the dreadfully slow shift of night to morning. However, with all the experiments he had running at one time and all of the data he had to chart, Sherlock found himself quite busy.

But at the end of the night, neither were there any numbers in his charts nor were there any notes, or questionable stains/explosions splattered on his wall. All he had done was think (obsess, really) over John and maybe every minutiae observation he'd made and stored from their time spent together.

Towards the early morning, he looked down at his papers expecting to see numbers and scribbled notes. Sherlock instead found a bulleted list with John's name at the top. Of fucking course, groaned Sherlock.

The list he'd inadvertently made had started with rather sensible attributes he admired about John. Sherlock had noted that although John may be timid that didn't mean he wasn't experienced. He'd also put down something along the lines about John's incredible ability of withstanding his personality for extended periods of time without so much as a death threat. Oh, and of course most importantly, Sherlock had had to put down how John wasn't entirely an idiot.

But as the list went on, let's just say that what he'd began noticing about John had shifted from his noble intellect (still not as superior as Sherlock but still noteworthy) to more physical attributes that made up John. John's tender eyes were in the lead with his glossy, pink lips were a close second. And how could he forget the way those leggings made John's legs, especially his calves, look when xe walked away from him in the library, his cock at full mast.

For the first time in his life, Sherlock was dying to get to school. His thoughts were going a mile a minute all John related par the course, both of his hands had developed a tremor that only seemed to get worse as the hours passed.

By the time he began to see the sun rise lazily in the winter sky, he had broken into a cold sweat but his heart had never beat faster in his life, not even whilst he was on drugs.

His heart sprinted, and galloped even faster (which should've been impossible but many crazier things had happened these last couple days) whenever his thoughts strayed to perfect blond hair held back by a hair pin. Glossy lips so damn kissable that sonnets should've been written as of immediate.

He was done for.

Sherlock's brain was about ready to go into overdrive, a John induced come which didn't sound all that bad actually, until he felt the 'what if's begin to breath down his neck. Oh how they whispered the cruelest words and insecurities Sherlock had though he'd buried deep into his mind palace revealing the worst ones to fester, to compromise the information in the other rooms.

But there was one 'what if' he couldn't ignore no matter how hard he tried to ignore it, push it back and away far from his conscious thoughts. Sherlock was certain he had found the death of him. Heroin might not've killed him, obviously he'd survived the many almost-overdoses and the actual overdose, but fate was funny like that and had waited for him to meet John. That way his falling would be to sentiment, the irony. Stone cold Sherlock is defeated by the warm heat of John Watson.

What if John had changed his mind? What if John didn't find him or rather his deductive abilities to be interesting anymore? Even more worrying of a thought was what if John finally got to his senses and began to see Sherlock from the perspective of everyone else on planet Earth. That would undoubtedly give John a reason to stay far away from Sherlock and to think that xe had once called him brilliant.

But Sherlock couldn't be mad at John for really thinking things over, actually he was thankful that John had gone through the trouble of doing the dirty work for both of them. It was inevitable that at one point in their acquaintanceship their differences in morality and what was okay and a bit not okay would only become a heavier burden over time. The way Sherlock saw it was how he in a pathetic way was protecting John from any more of the ugly, nosy voices whispering into the ears of all.

But still, no matter how hard he tried to convince and cement in his head it was for John's benefit his mind might've made enough change to allow a crush but not enough to give up on something he desperately wants.

Sherlock had never willingly given up anything out of the pure good of his heart, that simply didn't happen. So if John was going to ignore him even possibly laugh at him for even thinking they had a chance at being friends, Sherlock would fight with a vengeance.

And how John probably didn't like him (of course he didn't, Sherlock scolded himself) anymore there was no telling what extents Sherlock would go through to convince John he was a good person at heart --well, good wasn't exactly the word he would use but you know what he means.

Sherlock spent the next minutes wracking his mind before he was able to come up with what he considered to be one of the most genius idea he'd had (for the week that is).

It came to him in pieces but essentially he thought that if he toned down on the grunge look and replaced it with a smart shirt and a pair of decent jeans. Maybe then he give off the usual intimidating and overall unpleasant aura like he had done yesterday.

Sherlock knocked on wood that John would accept the renewed, slightly more refined, and the more hopefully more appealing version of him. Strangely, Sherlock had no qualms about changing from his usual leather jackets to cardigans from one day to the next. Which might sound a bit far-fetched considering how deep he's dug his feet into the ground to make his statement, to show the world that Sherlock Holmes is not a conformist.

Never would he have thought to imagine that in the span of two days he, Sherlock 'the-most-stubborn-apathetic-brat-of-all' Holmes, would pack any signs of his so-called rebellion into boxes because for the first time in his life he knew what it was to worry about what other thought about you. Well not exactly others because that would consider the rest of the bumbling idiots that attended his school or polluted the streets. Sherlock was worried, perhaps even a bit terrified of what John had thought about him the day before and what he can possibly be thinking about him now. (Because naturally John had nothing better to do at five in the morning than think about Sherlock)

One thing was for certain, and that was that under any circumstance, John shouldn't feel uneasy or embarrassed in Sherlock's presence. That was something Sherlock would simply not allow. It wouldn't be right but he isn't exactly the best person to be deciding what was morally acceptable or not. The bottom line of it all, Sherlock wouldn't be shallow and single minded (just this once, he wasn't a changed man nor did he intend to be) like a certain member of the British government he knew and would be considerate enough to put John's approval before his reputation of hardheaded punk that he'd worked exceedingly hard to build up and even harder to maintain at a respectable level.

It wouldn't do for Sherlock to reach a flashy, superfluous way of thinking because the whole reason he'd chosen to revert to the life of a monotonous, dark color palette was to keep people off of his back. Another reason he was convinced he needed to rethink his whole look. If his current look was made specifically to push people away using the power of intimidation, then it would obviously have the same effect on John. But if he were to change into one of those cliché, ultra boring outfits the morons of today declare to be fashion forward, then John would have no other choice than to fall for Sherlock's act.

So it was settled. Sherlock would wear some clothes that probably half of the male population of England own and make sure to wipe his face from any residual makeup, whether it be eyeliner or the dark plum eyeshadow he liked to put on the days he felt somewhat daring.

What ever he had to do you could consider it as good as done, he just prayed that John wouldn't change his mind about attending their next lunch date. Which evidently is set up for tomorrow's, actually today's lunch period. Whoopee. Off to work.

Sherlock tore into his closet in search of a shirt, any shirt that had actual sleeves, no crude graffiti writing, and if he could help it, no acid burns from one of his lab experiments because although they may work for his tough boy look, the charred fabric wouldn't do for the new, and improved Sherlock.

He found a plain shirt that and therefore exactly what he was looking for to fit in with the rest of the wannabes in his new school. For being way outside his comfort zone, the short sleeved button down shirt that came in a plum color did look nearly as bad as it should've.

Miraculously the color worked wonders at complimenting his almost translucent skin tone, getting rid of the sickly look he'd been cursed with. Also, the shirt wasn't as dreadful as he thought it would be and maybe, just maybe he found it easier to swallow the idea of not hearing chains jangle when he walked or feel the cool breeze hit his chest through the singed holes in his shirt.

Nevertheless, no matter how decent he looked or felt, Sherlock only saw a stranger in the mirror staring down at him, screaming in his ears how disappointed and outraged he was at this kid for giving up everything he was and everything that meant jack shit to him for another person. This is how he felt with only his shirt on, Sherlock feared what would happen when he found some trousers to match.

Finding a pair of jeans in his dungeon of trousers had been ironically easier to dig up than the shirt he was currently working up a sweat in. I wasn't even until a few minutes ago that Sherlock discovered he was the proud owner of a pair of respectable jeans.

Which he now thanked himself for being the type of person that grabs anything he sees on the rack in his size and in the color he likes, crazily enough without consulting the price tag and skipping the whole process of considering what he was about to buy. (Sherlock had an easy solution if he bought something that didn't agree with him later on. The more spare fabric he had on hand the merrier as he used paint thinners and even more toxic acids)

Since Sherlock had been a genius grabbing a pair of solid, dark wash skinny jeans, tear free mind you, he was basically done when it came to clothing. And thank-fucking-god his shirt matched the trousers or whatever which meant he could cross off the first box on his 'how to keep John by your side even if it's just as a friend' check list.

However, the most disheartening, horrid moment of panic that rattled Sherlock to the core happened the second he looked into the bathroom mirror. With the honest intent of fixing his hair, or in other words, ruffling his curls followed then diffusing the stubborn ones, Sherlock saw what could've easily been the first warning that the end of the world was near.

Blue. _Electric mother fucking raspberry blue_ to be exact, stained the majority of his hair. And not to mention the awfully noticeable mass of curls missing from one half of his head. Every snide comment he'd heard from the other Holmes about how inappropriate the hair made him look and how much he'd regret it soon enough was finally getting through his thick skull.

There was understandably very little he could do about his hair except to drown it with hair product and squash it against his skull as best as he could.

It made Sherlock feel lousy looking at his reflection in the vanity mirror, putting the clothing detail aside, it terrified him to know his eyes would have to go bare and unlined to school. But it was all in the name of sacrifice, Sherlock the next martyr.

John was worth it though. Xe really, really was, and there was no question about the fact. And if it came down between his armada of chain/skull decorated bracelets, or the pair of combat boots he was partially fond of, then to hell with self-expression. There would only be one person like John Watson to ever exist but rest assured Sherlock could find other bracelets, boots, pants, bronzer if he tried hard enough that would suit his new persona.

Sherlock, even after making such bold and uncharacteristic declarations, knew in the back of his head that he couldn't become the type of person that let someone else hold such heartbreaking power over him. Especially someone he'd recently met, it hadn't even been twenty-four hours yet but it had been inevitable the second he saw John, he couldn't have help himself. He'd fallen, fallen hard for John and that was something he has never experienced before and probably will never experience again. (He wasn't one for repeat performances in the more commonplace areas of life)

If there if one thing to be said, Sherlock had finally acknowledged the flaw that has been following him for most of his life. Drugs, especially the overdose being example enough, Sherlock has no way of knowing how much is too much. And ask anyone that has had the misfortune of crossing the path of Sherlock Holmes, there was very little Sherlock did that fall under that concept.

He doesn't know what to considered excessive and clingy, or how to compensate when he's in his black moods, detached and uncaring. The Holmes family hadn't and would never be the one's for outward displays of affection. It was seldom Sherlock received praise for a job well done from his parents, if ever, so how was he supposed to show John he cared tremendously for xir. (Sherlock admitted he questioned the emotional benefit of hugs during the duress of emotional crisis.)

And still Sherlock vowed to willingly make up for any of his shortcomings in the areas John said he needed to improve. He was more than ready to read as many books as it took to tolerate the baser concepts of his emotions and what he was capable of feeling. All for John, only for John. His John, hopefully, one day.

Albeit, right now, his problem was to get out of the house without attracting the eye of one overly nosy Mycroft who would be especially meddlesome, prying and digging, looking for a sign that could explain his baby brother's desire to change so radically from one day to the next.

Sherlock couldn't let his brother get satisfaction from watching him turn into a somewhat civilized member of society, even more so after he'd made it a point that he being in another part of the country was a poor excuse to kick him out of the house. The last thing Sherlock needed was for Mycroft to believe it was all because of the new scenery, the crisp air that was constantly scented with cow excrement. But on the other hand, he also didn't need Mycroft to know he'd seen the light (or the shadow of a light, all the same) because of one fanciful addition to his private life, heavy emphasis on private.

If either fact were to be discovered, Sherlock would surely be left to serve a death sentence after Mycroft ran off to Mummy and Dad to warmly reminisce the moment Sherlock reached his state of 'sophistication' and 'finally saw sense and wants to live a good life, a Holmes life.'

God knows what would happen next if his parents found out but Sherlock suspected countless trips to Paris solely for the purpose of buying the best suits money could buy. Surely they would be expecting him to dye his hair back to one color, or dispose that barbarous collection of CD's of his. Sherlock would rather donate his kidney's to a chimp than watch his precious records be tossed away in the rubbish bins.

So Sherlock stood staring at his bedroom door, a doubtful, and somewhat vague plan floated around his head. He knew the second he left the safety of these four walls, there was no return, Mycroft would be on him within the second. It was now or never, and if he opted for the latter, it meant missing out on a lifetime with John, so.

He took a weighty breath in before he zipped up the sweater he'd slipped on a few seconds ago waiting, wishing to see if it would be enough to detract everyone's (Mycroft) attention from the more subdued choice in shirt. Baggy clothing had a tendency of camouflaging some of more loathsome problems, dress shirts that have been paired with thrift store jeans and blue hair included.

Sherlock tried to discreetly open his door minding the squeaky hinges before walking down the hallway with quiet, calculated strides.

Thankfully, Sherlock's room was immediately to the left of the staircase which meant he wouldn't have pass by Mycroft's room or study at any point in time. But Mycroft was notorious for being the creature we have grown to fear hiding in the shadows, the creature that appears at our moments of weakness and fear and feasts upon misery.

Now that he'd made it this far out of his room, (give the boy some credit, it's not as easy as it look) he would really hate to catch sight of the whale, so Sherlock debated whether he should hightail it out of the house, you know, ripping off the bandage method. Or continue on his mission of stealth and tact. God he was already starting to sound like a pretentious snob and it was only the first day, not even, it was only the first hour.

On the other hand, Sherlock reached the stairs with no incidents so far but it was still too early to know for sure. Sherlock leaned his head over the banister to see if he could hear any movements down below, but all he heard was unfamiliar silence. He couldn't even hear the kitchen maids engaging in their usual morning gossip.

It was strange, that was for sure, but he didn't dare look at a gift horse in the mouth. Sherlock gradually tiptoed down the stairs putting the startling silence aside for the moment, he seriously needed to get moving.

Before long he found himself in the foyer only to notice all the lights were out on the first floor, the fireplace scant and dusted with ashes. Mycroft was a creature of habit, he always asked for the fireplace to be lit immediately after waking up.

So for Sherlock to be greeted with a dark, cold sitting room was both a suspicious coincidence and plausibly the first sign of an oncoming apocalypse.

Sparing no second thought at his brother's bizarre absence, Sherlock exited the house and broke into a brisk walk down the driveway. The air bit Sherlock's cheeks hellishly that by the time he'd reached the property line, he could only summon thoughts of warmth (John included) everything else was white noise.

Luckily before he'd made his hasty retreat from the house, he'd used his brain for something either than showing off and remembered to grab his coat, so at least his lanky torso was covered by a cozy layer of expensive wool. Sherlock burrowed his hands into his coat pockets before opting to brake into a slow jog. He rationalized that hopefully the faster flowing of blood through his veins would help to warm him up in the almost subzero temperature.

Raspy breaths and the occasional hacking cough is the jogging brought. Instead of providing him warmth using his own body fluids to provide heat, Sherlock had made the terrible mistake of taking huge, exaggerated breaths in through his mouth. Par the course, the Siberian-esque air froze his pulmonary system making Sherlock a frost breathing, terrorizing, life-ruining hellion.

He needed a cigarette. Stat.

After weighing the pros and cons of the sacrifices involved in said cigarette, Sherlock decided to risked it all. Forget about worrying about the state of his lungs or the tar build up, Sherlock was worried about giving up the comfortable heat, the exposure to possible frostbite, his inevitable death.

But dare he did, out came his pack of Marlboro Light and his lighter followed, even if his hands did turn into icicles, at least his lungs would recover from their unfortunate trip into the blast chiller.

The cigarette didn't last as long as he'd hoped it would since the wind was so lovely as to kill the light after every few seconds. It wasn't too long, however, until Sherlock spotted the distinctive brick red of his school building. John was hopefully already in that building, and soon, Sherlock would be too. Right where he belonged, along side John who made his serotonin and dopamine levels skyrocket uncontrollably.

It was very possible he wouldn't have the chance to catch a glimpse of John's soft, golden hair up until lunch hour, but for Sherlock, just the idea of having John in the same building as him was good enough. Once again, Sherlock thought how pitifully lovesick he was over a near stranger.

There was something wrong with him, there has to be.

He was just not the type to fall --as the fools would say-- head-over-heels for anyone. He was Sherlock Holmes for crying out loud. Feelings, more specifically feelings that shared the same brain wave as affection had no business being in Sherlock's head.

Weirdly enough, whatever he felt for John was too complex, too important to ignore or classify as only affection, it went beyond sexual attraction. It confused Sherlock twice as much admittedly.

How can he or anyone in this case feel something with this much intensity and conviction but have no clue as to what he could be feeling? But what could be said is that Sherlock loved a good puzzle and John was just that, A beautiful, fascinating puzzle that he needed to get to the bottom of.

What bothered him at the end of the day is that people don't just change, especially someone as hot-headed as Sherlock. It was exceedingly rare for anyone to make a transformation of judgement so quickly, almost over night, within a neglect portion of his brain. How can he now believe that he believed in the possible compatibility of two people when he had been the sort of child that counted the days his parents went without fighting to an inevitable divorce. (He was still counting, and waiting if that's something you wanted to know)

The rusting paint of the school doors almost became one with his face as he very nearly crashed into the metal double doors lost inside his thoughts. Sherlock collected himself together just in time to still be able to place a hand in between himself and the germ infested door. Great. Now how was he supposed to shake hands with John if the opportunity came up? The day just kept getting better and better.

With an exasperated huff Sherlock stomped into the main hallway losing any modicum of grace he might've displayed the day before. In fact, he looked like a three year old on the edge of a legendary, hell-raising, temper tantrum.

He furrowed his eyebrows petulantly until they merged into one continuos furry brow. And without the addition of his piercing (it's all for John, it's all for John), his petulance was even easier to pick up on. It was his second day at the new school having spoken to a total of four people --John included-- and already the whole student body knew to leave him the hell alone.

Sherlock walked miserably down the hallway, slumping his shoulders so far forward his spine was at a risk of fracture.

 _I should really be at my locker. Why am I not at my locker? It's stupid, and irrational of me to be exposing myself like this but I guess it's what I signed up for after pressing the defrost button on my emotions_ , thought Sherlock gloomily.

_What would John say if he saw me like this? I bet he wouldn't be too happy knowing his new 'acquaintance' is one of those depressed punk types. I'm just so pathetic. Why don't I just bury myself inside the wallowing pool of my tears and leave John alone. Oh god, I really am one of those ghastly punks that right poems in their spare time._

Somehow Sherlock had made it to his locker without incident for the duration of his pity party. Not even the loud thundering clang of his locker banging open did anything to get Sherlock to budge from rock bottom. Instead he sighed like what could perhaps had been the seemed like the thousandth time that morning (not that anyone was counting) before reaching in to free his chemistry book from the stockpile of papers that have already done a splendid job of accumulating in such a short amount of time.

However, the stupid text book had chosen that exact day to mess with him. It wasn't budging an inch and man how he pulled and pulled the book but watched absolutely nothing happened. It was like the surrounding books and papers had magically stuck themselves to the inside of the locker with super glue.

It was a groan this time that escaped Sherlock's mouth, similar to one of a weak, scrawny lion but a lion all the same, it sounded fierce and put upon, above all, extremely annoyed. If time didn't hurry it's ass up and let him see John anytime soon he already had in mind twelve foolproof ways of murdering someone, didn't have to be anyone in particular, without getting caught.

Sherlock was going in for his fourth? fifth? pull at the chemistry book when he heard a hesitant cough from his right side. Whomever it was interrupting his sulk could be sure their death warrant had been signed by none other than the infamous Sherlock Holmes.

He looked over his shoulder to assault in any way possible the offending stranger when he caught sight of a stretched, blue Topshop jumper that was paired with what Sherlock considered to be a beautiful combination of a black ruffled skirt and white, knee-high socks.

Sherlock didn't need to look at the person's face because he already knew who it was. It was John, of course it had to be John. The subtle smell of fresh lavender and vanilla had been a dead give away. But when he did look up at John's face to greet xir with an apologetic smile, he wasn't a big fan of the way John was looking at him. Dear god what did he do now?

Sherlock straightened his back with a little cough and nervously faced John. "John, it's a pleasure to see you. How are you this morning?"

All of the pleasantries sounded foreign and full out disgusting coming from his mouth. Sherlock wasn't one for the 'how do you do's so having to say them now felt like a cold bucket of water on his face.

John eyed him strangely, he cocked his head to the side and pursed his lips. "Sherlock, is that you?" Xe spoke in a small, unsure voice.

It was a simple question, and Sherlock knew that, however, that was no consolation for his eyes flew open in shock. "Of course it's me, John. Why wouldn't it be me?" replied Sherlock with overwhelming hurt tainting his voice. He tried to ground himself by closing the door to his locker, then he faced John with his arms dejectedly crossed over his chest and his signature pout.

"I'm truly sorry, Sherlock but I wasn't sure if it was you. I see you slicked back your hair today. Why is that?" asked John, Sherlock could see reluctance marring his companions face. "Better yet, is that a Burberry shirt?

"You're saying it like it's a bad thing." Sherlock chuckled nervously, but it fell instantly when he watched an unfazed John. "Is it a bad thing?"

"No, I mean if that's what you like then it's fine but from what I saw yesterday, I didn't think you would be the type to wear a two hundred pound shirt to school or pour half of a bottle of gel on their hair."

John saw the crestfallen look on Sherlock's face causing him to stumble to find the correct words in order to ease Sherlock's humiliation. "Yesterday you were dressed so...you, or at least you seemed very comfortable, you know with the ripped jeans and the tank top." John worried the hem of his jumper between his freshly manicured nails. Damn, xe went so far as to paint xir nails.

"And your hair wasn't all sticky and stuck together and--ugh, I don't know and I can't even explain how I don't know. What going on Sherlock?"

"Nothing. Nothing is going on, John. What ever do you mean? I'm simply dressing a bit more consciously, that's all." It was distressful for Sherlock to watch as John began to piece things together in his head. In the end it was his hurried words that gave him away, it had to be.

"Wait." John took a deep breath in and held out his hand. "Don't tell me this is because of your nosy brother or that power complex of his. He has no right to tell you how to dress, especially when you look so handsome dressed just the way you are. I swear that if I ever meet your brother, it's not going to be pretty. I'm going to leave him with --"

"John." Sherlock whispered voicelessly while John continued on rambling the many ways he planned to make Mycroft's life a living hell.

"John." repeated Sherlock now with more certainty in his voice. "Mycroft had nothing to do with this. I would rather donate my imported microscope to a group of incompetent scientist before giving into Mycroft and my family's selfish wish."

Although it may not have been completely evident on John's smooth, even toned face, there was underlying confusion that Sherlock knew xe wouldn't let go unanswered.

"Then why the sudden change? From what I saw and heard yesterday, you were pretty happy just the way you were. And correct me if I'm wrong, I believe you even said you wouldn't change a thing about yourself, not for anything in the world, and I quote, "because it is full of idiots who don't know what they want and are jealous that someone finally figured out what they want to do with their life"."

"Yeah, I did say that. But, John --" Sherlock had barely anytime to defend himself before John picked up on xir side of the argument.

"Then what the hell are you doing coming to school looking like an even posher version of every other boy in this school. Sherlock, don't you see, one of the reasons I risked it all to let myself be with you even as a friend was because you were different and best of all, you didn't give a flying fuck what people thought about you."

John stopped talking for a few seconds, xe had too because xir voice was breaking from the raging emotions he was trying to bottle up inside.

After what seemed like a millennium but was really about half a minute later, John spoke in the small, crestfallen voice Sherlock had immediately hated ever since he'd first heard John use it. "I guess I was wrong, yeah? Was I wrong, Sherlock? Don't tell me I was wrong about you because it might be too late to tell that to my heart."

"John --" now it was Sherlock's turn for his voice to break.

"See, you keep saying that but I haven't heard anything come out of your mouth that has come close to an explanation, maybe even an apology if I'm lucky for getting my hopes up yesterday Sherlock. That's just not on what you did making me believe I finally had a chance with someone who wasn't afraid to show their inner selves so freely."

John scoffed when Sherlock remained stock still, "Do you have anything else you want to say, because this is it, this is your last chance to get something off of your chest so if your going to go on and on about how stupid I am for believing how a rich kid like you could possibly live an alternative lifestyle, then make it quick. I've got places to be. I really expected more from you, Sherlock."

John shook xir head, xir golden hair fringing properly over xir forehead now that he was intensely staring into Sherlock's eyes waiting for an answer.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well Hello!
> 
> As you can see, I'm back with the next chapter. I tried my hardest to get it written as fast as I could so as soon as it was done and edited (by me, no beta :( ) I put it up. I really hope you enjoy this and while I try to make my fics lighthearted with humor, I hope you guys as the reader can see the actual messages I'm trying to get through with my writing. So let me know what you think. Comments/kudos/cake anything is always appreciated :) <3 
> 
> Cursing ahead and some laughs so you've been warned.

_John scoffed when Sherlock remained stock still, "Do you have anything else you want to say, because this is it, this is your last chance to get something off of your chest so if your going to go on and on about how stupid I am for believing how a rich kid like you could possibly live an alternative lifestyle, then make it quick. I've got places to be. I really expected more from you, Sherlock."_

Sherlock had really done a grade A job at cocking everything up. He'd planned on surprising John with his brand new look, he truly only had the best intentions in mind. One of them was sparing John the dreadful moment when xe would eventually be associated as another 'I-want-to-date-someone-who-has-a-grudge-against-the-system-and-don't-forget-they-about-their-cock.' However, instead, Sherlock had managed to insult John in every way possible. Not to mention the part in which he succeeded making John question xir initial instinct to reach out to Sherlock. Then leading xir to question if letting Sherlock impress xir and take xir breath away so easily had been a good idea. Holy hell on a stick, Sherlock has to do some extensive damage control and quick.

"No! Absolutely not." Sherlock cried out. "You must forgive me, John, for causing all this confusion." Sherlock's chest heaved at unsettling intervals. There was a discernible part to him that hoped John would let him explain why he messed everything up, but he didn't expect John to be especially forgiving to scum like him.

"Then you wouldn't mind straightening this whole mess out, yeah? You could start by telling me what the hell is going on, but only if you want to, no rush." That was one of the things Sherlock admired about John, xir no nonsense attitude with an added subtlety of sarcasm that got John what xe needed.

"It's quite simple, really. Still it pains me to say this is all in result of my own stupidity, and irrational thinking. All I wanted was to impress the most incredible human being on the face of the Earth." Sherlock hurriedly breathed perhaps to gain control once again at the situation at hand. "Well, if taking into consideration several accomplished scientist and mathematicians, the person ranks a close second." Sherlock concluded nonsensically.

"Yeah, okay, that's all great but it still doesn't tell me anything about why you're dressed like that, like another one of those insanely mainstream trend worshipper or something." John stared back at Sherlock even more disconcertedly than previous.

"Come to think of it, now I find I have more questions to ask you about. For example, you mentioned wanting to impress the most incredible human being in the world. Exactly who would that be, Sherlock?" Xir lips pursed and naturally Sherlock took that as his excuse to focus all of his attention towards John's lips. The sheen of xir fruit flavored lip gloss beckoned Sherlock like a siren call, scrambling his brain and melting any sensible thought that may have lingered behind.

"Um." Sherlock looked away from John to mask the blush crawling up the pale skin of his cheeks. "As you can see --Um, like you mentioned before, their style has become so overly commercialized, and with that," Damn it man, speak, use your words, you're good at that. Just ask the dozens of people you've sent away crying, wait, that's actually a bit not good after all.

John looked more than done with Sherlock's nonsense and any second now xe would surely be declaring his good riddance . "Fine, John there is something I have to tell you."

Here it goes. Here. It. Goes. This is the moment when Sherlock was going to confess everything to John. He would tell John about the time he thought xir wouldn't like Sherlock if he had the rough and tough exterior but the shy, turtle-like interior. He might also mention the doubts Sherlock had had on John's praise and whether or not they had been genuine or exaggerated to pull more of a reaction from Sherlock. Sherlock would also take this time to tell John how badly he wanted xir to care for a punk like him, arrogant, selfish, ignorant, rude, and the many, many more names he had come up with off the top of his head.

Sherlock looked into John's dimmed blue eyes and it suddenly hit him. What if this was the first and last time he would get the chance to ever be this close to John and xir ethereal presence? Forget about looking into John's eyes for a moment, the thought of never again standing within the warming affection of John's attention sickened Sherlock, it vibrated through his very core like a badly delivered punch to the gut.

"The truth is rather simple, today is Hallowe'en day, John." Sherlock laughed nervously crossing every finger that John would buy into his far fetched explanation "You do know Hallowe'en day, don't you? Even you can't be that dull. It's the day to worship the dead pumpkins veterans from the skeleton war which many people celebrate dressing up in some horrendous costume. This just happens to be mine, I decided to dress up as the most terrifying thing I know --a conformist to current society's definition of 'normal.' And for strict science reasons, I wanted to see if more people tried to approach me in this state. Glad to see my costume is working."

Even though he was holding his breath with an inch of his life, he couldn't let the opportunity for self-praise pass. _Sherlock Holmes you are one smooth mother fucker._  
  
John eyed Sherlock warily for next to an eternity before speaking, "Is that so?" Uncertainty weighing heavy on every word.

"I may seem cold and indifferent but I'm all for sacrifices when they're in the name of science. So, if it means I have celebrate the pumpkins' independence from the skeletons by essentially committing any and every social cliché for a day, then so be it," Eh, it was a weak defense but at least some part of it was true, you just have to look really well to see it.

"I mean, Hallowe'en day is only for one day right?" It wasn't like Sherlock had begun to lose his cool already. Fuck it, Sherlock never had his cool in the first place.

"Sherlock, it's the second week of January." John said after xe exhaled heavily. Xe pinched the bridge of his nose scrunching up his eyes in something akin to annoyance but could've easily been disappointment.

Sherlock shouldn't have found the crinkles by John's eyes attractive, nor should he have been thinking how badly he wanted to reach out and smooth said imperfections of xir skin with the touch of his skin. He wanted to hold John's face in his hands and sweep his thumbs across the expanse of John's glorious, golden skin and wipe all of his troubles and sorrows away.

Sherlock was willing to be John's knight in shinning armor, except the armor part that shit's heavy, if John would let him. All John had to do was say the words and Sherlock undoubtably would be by John's side to guard xir (not that xe needs any taking care of) from the evils of this world and the next should such thing exist. John already ruled the kingdom of Sherlock's heart, his emotions too, if xe asked. That amount of power over such a fierce and willful person, one who defied the British government daily. Yet here we have Sherlock about to ask John for xir forgiveness --sort of, if Sherlock can actually get through to the truth first.

The not-so punk teen scoffed, "Excellent observation, John. Did you also know water is wet?" Sherlock grimaced at how snarky he'd sounded but hell that was the real him and he wasn't going to play nice forever. "How is the month relevant to our conversation?"

Sherlock brought his hand up to his hair to brush away the curls that would've been in his eyes if it weren't for the worrying amount of hair product in his hair. He awkwardly coughed into his hand to make up for the fact he was obviously not used to this getup.

"Well, Sherlock, I may be wrong but since Hallowe'en is usually celebrated in the month of October and you just confirmed it is indeed January, pray tell, how exactly do you expect me to believe your dressing up for Halloween?" said John to Sherlock, xir scorn clear as day for all to see.

"And you're sure Hallowe'en day is only celebrated in October? Because I think you might be wrong, actually no, I'm pretty sure your wrong." Sherlock frantically eyed his surroundings for any inspiration to feed off of. "Today is obviously the less known Hallowe'en day, the unofficial version for people like me, in the know, connections and all of that stuff. Trust me, you wouldn't be interested."

Almost immediately, John's expression grew hard and closed off.

"I would like to decide if it would interest me or not, thank you very much. So please, enlighten me of this oh so special Hallowe'en that you even found it necessary to add 'day' after it." John finished with a smirk. John...smirking, John was smirking. Why was John smirking? This was getting out of hand, Sherlock needed to put a stop to the constant volleying of uncertainty... But first he needed to come up with a damn good cover story.

"What do you mean Hallowe'en day is called Hallowe'en day?" Questioned Sherlock with a pitched voice, yes that was pure, not to mention poorly concealed panic on Sherlock's behalf they'd both had witnessed.

"Halloween day doesn't exist, I don't think it has ever existed. It's Hallowe'en, Sherlock, like it has been for quite some time now, centuries even for all I know. And right now, it's more than you, so shush which is unless you and your posse intentionally added the 'day' to differentiate which Hallowe'en you were talking about. I hate to break it to you, honey, but you have even more explaining to do."

John had no right to look so fucking attractive playing bad cop, smug, and sarcastic while showing how fed up xe was all at the same time. How did xe pull it off so damn well? Xir mouth was curled up into a self-satisfied grin but xir brows were furrowed seriously. Seriously, John should be illegal, xe should be kept somewhere under lock and key which in that case, Sherlock would happily join xir to keep xir company. You know, in the case John were to get bored, or god forbid cold, Sherlock would be there as xir personal heater and fix John right up. (Take that as you will, Sherlock most definitely was.)

"Right, that, an inconsequential factor of a larger, more important picture." Sherlock said dismissively as he would if he were brushing of a comment about the weather. "It's obvious, John we added 'day' to our exclusive Hallowe'en celebration to remove any confusion. It's not like the others are the smartest crayons in the tool shed...or however that expression goes."

He waved a flippant hand and there he goes again messing everything up with his hands. It was up until now he'd yet to notice the immaculate black nail polish on all ten fingers. Great. Adding another point to Satan's tally incase anyone wanted keeping track. Currently it was a shit ton to zero, note that the zero was Sherlock and the shit ton of points was all Satan. You may continue.

"Sure, sure." Replied John with --was that derision Sherlock was hearing in John's voice? No, it couldn't be. Could it? "So, let me get this straight. For 'Hallowe'en day' you've decided to dress up as a modern day hipster, correct?"

"Another stellar observation, John. How ever did I manage to live without you before today?" Don't wince, Sherlock, don't you dare wince, Holmes. Fight the power, be stronger than the force.

That's strike two Sherlock, one more strike and your out of the game. Sherlock, in his defense, and despite common assumption, manipulated his words to save his arse from trouble. And even though he was in about as much trouble as he could possibly be in, Sherlock still stood by everything he'd said to and about John. And by that he meant only about the last few sentences, he wasn't counting any of the bullshit he's tried to pull off since John caught him off guard.

"Let's cut the cheek, Sherlock, not all of us can be geniuses like you." Excellent work, _genius_. Good god, Sherlock, you had to go and make John feel inferior didn't you? Shame on you, look at xir lips, see them frowning, look at the corners of xir mouth and know it's all your fault. _Shame_ , Sherlock. "Honestly, all I'm doing is asking you some simple questions, the least you can do is answer them, and answer them honestly. That shouldn't be too hard, now should it?"

John gave Sherlock a pointed look, eyebrows arched and everything. You, yes you, Sherlock Holmes are in trouble. Big trouble and not even Mycroft and his army of brainwashed, artery-clogged minions would be able to get him out of this mess.

Sherlock sniffed, "What makes you think I've not been answering your questions honestly, John? I've been nothing but --" The words died on his lips, he wasn't exactly sure how much longer he could continue the act.

"Sherlock, do us both a favor, just tell me what's _really_ going on." Fickle discomposure shivered over xir expression after he paused which was covered immediately by a softer, wistful look of supplication. "Please."

That does it. Sherlock was going to tell John the truth, the actual truth. No more lies, no more bullshit, the truth and only the truth. And that's final. John deserved to know Sherlock was human deep inside, deep, deep, _deep_ inside, and that he too shared John's worries of the lengths people were willing to go through to hurt them. To cause them physical and emotional harm all because they were different on the outside.

Sherlock felt the air surrounding him take on a ominous vibe, looking from his perspective, he was in essence, walking towards his death. John would find out the truth, xe would find out how badly Sherlock had misjudged xir ability to accept Sherlock's true colors in the way he represented himself to the public. The second John found out how little faith Sherlock had put into xir, it would pretty much mean the end to his short lived utopia with a heavenly partner. Oh, John the things you do to poor (that's entirely debatable and a massive lie on his behalf) Sherlock Holmes.

Sherlock deflated whilst he prepared himself to talk to John. "Fine. As you already know, I may not have been entirely truthful with you but in my defense it's not because --"

The school's warning bell blared resoundingly all throughout the hallways to remind the students classes were about to begin. If Sherlock thought he had been breaking up a sweat before, then sweetie he was in for a surprise now.

With a frustrated cough, John straightened xir skirt in a genteel manner causing warning bells to go off in Sherlock's head. That, and also, John was avoiding direct eye contact with Sherlock at all costs. Exhibit number one, John was focused solely on looking at xir hands glide on the textured fabric of xir black skirt.

The two teens stood stock still pressed against the lockers meanwhile what seemed like the rest of the school rushed past them to get to class. From the outside looking in, John and Sherlock looked like a pair of normal teenagers caught in the midst of a serious conversation. Like another set of students oblivious to the realities of school life.

But from Sherlock and John's perspective, the air felt solid from the tension between them to weigh it down. Sherlock wished he'd brought a knife or perhaps something sharper so he could potentially test the air and see if it had changed densities during his conversation with John.

He needed to speak to John, now, actually speak to xir. It wasn't one of his a rushed 'what's up?' in between class or the 'alright?' he dared himself to say during the one class they shared together. Sherlock has something vital to tell John, it isn't something that can be said over the hallway raucous, carelessly shared into the shared space of fluorescent hallways and squeaky tiled floor.

It was important the words Sherlock wanted --needed to say to John, and if he was already going to step forward and out of his shell to talk to John, then John's full, undivided attention was a must. And xir full attention he will have even if it meant getting down on both knees and begging like, well a beggar until John relented into giving Sherlock a few seconds of xir precious time.

It was then Sherlock came up with an idea, yes, he had another idea even if his last half dozen or so have been disasters.

Both bodies remained frozen from the time Sherlock had been interrupted until now. In the slim time frame, although no words technically had been interchanged, Sherlock thought he had something to work with. Silence wasn't always synonymous with trouble, John could've been lost in thought, thinking about different ways to strangle Sherlock and get away with little if no time in jail. Or favorably, John was still amendable to listening to Sherlock and his tangled mess of an explanation so xe stood mum waiting for Sherlock to spit out the truth.

Great, so all that means now is that Sherlock needs to --well, he needs to act quickly because John looks so done right now. Also, was his heart rate actually going this fucking fast or was Sherlock imagining a twisted version of tachycardia?

In what seemed like slow motion, Sherlock watched as John turned away from him and towards the albeit thinning crowd of screeching students. No, this is not what he wanted, Sherlock never intended to make John look so upset, so crestfallen, or spent. Nor did he foresee to feel his heart drop out of his chest only to hit the floor with a stagnant crash.

"John, wait!" immediately cried out Sherlock when he'd found his voice again. "Don't go! Just --You can't leave yet." Sherlock looked like a dear caught in headlights, he was virtually clueless as to what he was going to say to John for xir to stay. His lips quivered from the force of the fear coursing and streaming through his body, and how ever much he denied it, he felt an unfamiliar wet, prickling sensation come from the corner of his eyes. "Don't leave me. Not like everybody else."

Thankfully, John had picked up his desperation induced claim, better yet, it had been enough to make xir and look over xir shoulder guardedly. Sherlock, as he said earlier would've preferred to have _all_ of John's attention focused on him and only him, but Sherlock would gladly take all he could get. Beggars can't be choosers, now can they?

"Why shouldn't I, Sherlock?" Ah the truth hurts doesn't it Sherlock? Feel it, accept it, this is your new reality Holmes, welcome to Hell. John's words had done an excellent job turning every one of his bones into ashes, his blood into mud, and his brain into thin air. Sherlock was nothing, and had nothing to offer John anymore. He'd become nothing more than a collection of atoms wasting space to John, now.

"Why shouldn't you what, John?" Xe sighed wearily and turned to face Sherlock, only a few stragglers remained in the hallway, which in hindsight seemed like a good idea, reduce the amount of witnesses, reduce the chance of embarrassment "How do you mean" Sherlock latched onto the coy, naive card warranting a concise and through answer from John.

"No, Sherlock. I'm the only one that should be allowed to say that right now." John puffed xir chest as xe wanted to warrant his complaints were being heard, but in the same moment xir fringe fell across xir face defeating the purpose of the toughened bravado. "Why all the lies, and the playing pretend shit? Just spit it out, Sherlock because the person I talked to yesterday wouldn't be afraid to tell the truth, in fact, he welcomed it's presence. He accepted the facts just for what they were and worked brilliantly with what he had. The person I talked to yesterday had asked for one thing, honesty, but now I ask myself where he's gone."

Sherlock was speechless, breathless, thoughtless, and any other -less you want to add. Sherlock was still slowly going through the motions of processing each and every word John had so carefully hand picked to make Sherlock see sense. He wasn't exactly sure if his lungs were functioning, or if his heart was going through the ebb and flow of delivering blood throughout his body. Because what was the use? John had been one hundred and one percent right with everything he'd said, maybe even more.

Sherlock expected endless honesty, and loyalty from everyone he came in contact with, yet here he was pulling lies out of his big toe and hoping John would be kind enough to swallow just for him. _StupidStupidStupid_ , Sherlock had been exceptionally stupid.

And man, did John had a way with words that's for sure. If xir goal had been to hit him in all the right places, then goal, or touchdown, or whatever the cool kids say these days. John had gotten one more step closer to the confines and inner mechanisms of Sherlock's brain with that well delivered spiel of his, and if Sherlock had had any lingering reservation on whether telling John would be the right thing, it was safe to say they were long gone by now.

"Give me another chance, John. Please, I know I've been stupid," John wasn't stupid, xe wasn't going to pass on the chance of providing Sherlock with a more proper description. "an utter cock."

Sherlock heeded no complaints to John's comment leaving him to trudge on in the mess of his own doing. "I've been an utter cock, and I know this is a fact, but if you were to just give me five minutes of your time, I would hope to have this disaster under control. If not, (here come's the hard part) then I promise to never bother you again, I feel that --"

Sherlock's mouth went slack, he doubtlessly felt his lips forming words and phrases only to be silenced by his cowardice. Sherlock recognized a lost case when he saw one, but he wouldn't give up on John, then again, there was only so much a human (especially Sherlock, half human, half whatever else he was) could take before they eventually gave up. There were so many things he wanted to say to John, but so little time, so little courage left inside of him.

He wanted to tell John not to leave his side, Sherlock didn't want to be alone anymore. He wanted to tell John to please, please trust him even if it was only for those five minutes. He wanted to say to John for xir to reach into Sherlock's chest and feel his heart beat like the wings of a hummingbird, furiously thrumming against his rib cage because of xir, because of xir radiance, xir beauty that made John everything xe was and wasn't. Sherlock wanted to tell John how badly he wanted to believe he hadn't already fallen in love with xir, but he knew that it would be adding another lie, another stripe onto the tigers hide.

But as the late bell rang, Sherlock only managed one more word, one last word before everything stopped making sense. " _Please_." It was clear to see the emotion attached to that singular, usually unassuming word. But coming from Sherlock, it had come from a deep, dark place within himself, and coincidently, the home of dependency, need, supplication, comfort, the beast Sherlock had thought he'd gained control over from. But this was John, xe wouldn't take advantage (at least Sherlock hoped not) and this was the here and now. He wasn't setting out to screw anything up and if it meant showing a weaker more emotional Sherlock Holmes then so be it. Come to think of it, Sherlock has said exactly that quite a few times today and he's gotten nowhere so far, maybe he needs a better motto.

The hallway was empty, now with the exception of John and Sherlock, radio silence all around but Sherlock could tell that was about to change some time within the next five second.

 _One...two...three...four..._ John shifted on the balls of xir heels, an uneasy quality to xir movements.

John was late to class, which technically meant Sherlock was too, but that was a minor offense compared to any of his previous passive aggressive works of genius. The clock kept ticking, the seconds passed, and John was still late to class because of Sherlock. It was Sherlock who was keeping xir from getting to class, from leaving the inferno of Sherlock's disastrous path to the ivory tower of education and learning.

John was smart, (surely not as smart as him) and there was no doubt in Sherlock's mind about that. Sherlock had been witness to xir timeless wisdom first-handedly. When, you may ask? Well he'd seen John make connections from his thoughts that not even he, Sherlock Holmes, had thought to make. Xe was luminous, not only with xir radiant presence, but with xir ability to conduct brilliance out of the darker, less traveled corners of Sherlock's brain.

Education was something John considered to be a sacred part of xir life, not only did Sherlock understand, Sherlock sympathized (sort of) with the reasoning behind it. Oh yes, Sherlock had a vague suspicion on John and xir appreciation of greater knowledge. Nobody spent time more time than necessary with Sherlock if it wasn't for a specific reason, John included in this case it wasn't exactly a bad thing.

John wanted to surround himself with good people, with people who had values in life and actually dreamed of achieving something with the talents they were given. And if anything, Sherlock was the penultimate example of academic achievement, he'd put in the time to study and the grades came effortlessly. And for John, that hadn't been something xe'd been taught at any point in xir short seventeen years of life.

It was easy enough to see, John's home life wasn't, per se, the often sought after American dream household. In fact, John didn't want to end up like xir alcoholic father, nor his sister who stupidly followed in their father's steps. John had warned her, xe had. Xe'd given Harry countless warnings to stay away from the edge, to stop playing with fire. Lo and behold, xir sister had gotten burned and now John would do everything in xir power to stay clear of the Watson curse, xe had too much to live for, too many talents to let go to waste.

Sherlock felt ashamed of himself. John had probably never been tardy in xir whole school attendance and then wham. Soon as his stupid ass walks through the door, he goes and makes John, the only human to ever make him feel alive, brake xir cardinal rule.

But it was up to John, now. Sherlock had laid his heart out on the line, bearing all he could without physically kneeling on the ground and handing John a corporeal form of his love --soul, he meant to say soul.

The ball was in John's court, John's perfect, beautiful, incredible court where there was acceptance for the likes of people like Sherlock, or hopefully just Sherlock. Now all Sherlock could do was wait and see how John would respond. Fingers crossed from here on out.

John stared into Sherlock's eyes with a burning intensity that made Sherlock feel sizzling sparks of thundering energy shutter trough his bloodstream. Xir eyes were hard, cold, unexpressive. The warmth Sherlock had once associated with their lovely blue color had disappeared under a veil of dubiety. Admittedly, Sherlock, the son of a bitch, deserved every ounce of John's distrust but it still hurt being on the receiving end of John's stony glare.

With a decisive squint of xir eyes, John's exhaustion rang clear and the once stern exterior melted away into one of resignation. "Fine, Sherlock." Xe sighed. "I'll give you five minutes, no more, no less, but I'm late to class so can we do this some other time?"

Sherlock gasped in disbelief. What a day to be alive. He heard people relating life to a roller coaster but he never saw the correlation, but now he was beginning to understand why the two were interlaced because damn. His day had taken so many twist and turns he wasn't sure what would happen next.

His brain went through a rigorous rebooting process so he was pretty certain he looked like an incompetent idiot with his jaw unhinged, but still he tried to answer as poignantly as he could.

"Meet me at the library during lunch, same table as yesterday. You won't regret it, I promise."

And without much thought (like pretty much everything else he'd done the least few day) and a shitload of fireworks exploding inside of his stomach that happened to be filled with mechanic wasps, Sherlock cupped John's head with two large, awkward hands and planted a soft, chaste kiss onto John's actual, real, true cheek. Xir real one, like the one connected to his face.

_**Red alert.** _

_**Danger. Danger.** _

_**Abort mission.** _

_**Abort all missions, now.** _

That was not supposed to happen, well not yet. Sherlock wished he could hit himself without looking deranged or mental. He blamed it on the cocktail of emotions wrecking the inside of him. That was definitely (maybe) what had lead him to kiss John so stupidly and impulsively on the cheek. Actual skin to skin action on the second day. While he wanted to pat himself on the back for getting that far, but this was bad, bad Sherlock, this was John and John deserved to be treated like royalty, perhaps even better. Xe wasn't stuck up or egotistical like some of the lords Sherlock could name off of the top of his head. (Hello Mycroft and friends.)

Although the touch of his lips with John's skin had been brief and sweet, to Sherlock it meant both the beginning and end of his life. He'd finally got to touch John with his lips even if it was just xir cheeks and even it had been only for less than a second, like he'd said before, a kiss is a kiss and it counted twice as such if it was with John.

But on the other hand, it hadn't been ten seconds after Sherlock had begged and pleaded, essentially then swearing to John xe wouldn't regret changing his mind giving him another chance. Only for him to go ahead and ruin everything by invading xir personal space and practically establishing he was a fresh, reverted wanna-be that like to mess with the heads of gorgeous creatures. But not the awkward perverts that put their hands on people's shoulders or had he given John one of those weird bro arm punches. No, he'd gone ahead and kissed John --on the cheek. (You say potato, I say potahto.)

In some places, (all places one would think) that coveted kiss is considered harassment and Sherlock was expecting a well earned slap on the face any second now. However, strangely, it never came.

He looked up at John through his eyelashes, a crimson blush painting not only his cheeks but possibly every other inch of his body. And there John stood wringing his hands by xir chest with a blush similar to Sherlock's. Xe stared at the ground for several seconds after Sherlock had begun to look at him in wonderment, but at one point their gazes met and as Sherlock's blush intensified (was that even possible?) John sobered xirself up.

"Okay, fine Sherlock. I'll meet you at the library for lunch. Don't be late." John cast one more hopeful glance in Sherlock's direction before walking to xir next class. Sherlock watched John's retreating figure with unbelieving eyes, and John wasn't making it any easier either. Xe made sure to sway xir hips slightly with every step and the way xir skirt was cut and xir knee-socks came up, Sherlock began to salivate all over again. Maybe it wasn't so bad he'd stolen that kiss from John after all.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, I know it's been ages since I've last posted but I promise this chapter is an extra long one. And the next chapter the drama will get going. And I swore to my self I needed to finish today because I am seething over Leelah Alcorn's passing and I thought I would pay her respect dedicating this chapter to her. May her soul rest in peace and I would personally like to apologize that the world wasn't ready for a person as beautiful as her.
> 
> Chapter warning: Lots of cursing and insecure Sherlock and John? You'll have to read to find out ;)

  
Sherlock, for the second day in a row, burst through the school doors wearing an unsurpassable look of satisfaction that could be detected from a mile away. Pure, unadulterated happiness rippled through Sherlock with a sizzling excitement, never had he felt so wholesome, so entirely absolute. Well, if Sherlock didn't count his inconsequential involvement with incredibly high risk drugs then all was well.

At the end of it all, the drugs couldn't really be compared to how John made Sherlock feel, the two feelings were in leagues of their owns. The needles filled with cocaine, heroin if Sherlock was feeling daring were a means to clear away the fog, to sharpen the blurry edges of a world Sherlock knew once he saw, there would be no limit to his prowess. Sherlock constantly built himself up only to bring himself down. When he was high there was nothing Sherlock couldn't do. America's twenty-eighth vice president's birthday? No problem. The real problem was having to deal with a sobering Sherlock on the verge of a psychotic breakdown because Sherlock had forgot he'd deleted the last place he'd left his pack of cigarettes.

Sherlock didn't have to awaken to the startling reality of being useless, unwanted, under-appreciated. When he was doped up, at least the chemicals surging in his blood gave him a reason to feel, more importantly, believe otherwise.

But John, too wiped away the fog of his brain like one would do to a bathroom mirror after a hot, steamy bath. However, instead of filling Sherlock with irrevocable misery once the initial swell of emotions began to ebb, Sherlock was only filled with more excitement, and anticipation, and although he was loath to admit, a slight touch of agitation.

There were no more crushing sense of disappointment or crippling self-consciousness, Sherlock felt a solace deep within him, one made up of one part rare, and simple joy, and two whooping parts satisfaction. And again, the only one Sherlock had to thank for that was John Watson.

John Watson had turned Sherlock's life around, and unlike Victor Trevor, it had been for the better. Much better. Sherlock's eyes now twinkled with unique, non-murderous gleam that had been a thing of fiction only days prior to his discovery of the species of John Watson.

Sherlock smiled, actually smiled at himself and he couldn't have thought himself of a bigger fool. It hadn't been one of his signature self satisfied smirk he flashed at his next victim (dramatic but true). Sherlock had just smiled the smile of a besotted man who couldn't be happier about the existence of their loved one, funny that, John happened to alive, and present. Two for two, so Sherlock had all the reason to be merry and slightly...vomit inducing. It was a classic case of Romeo Syndrome, Sherlock being victim of Cupid's unforgiving arrow, luckily in his case, John had been struck with an arrow as well.

And at that, Sherlock's heart skipped a step with the mention of John or really anything Sherlock had come to associated with John and xir stunning beauty. And whilst others might use this time to point out the fact Sherlock had only known John for a short period of time, and vice versa. Their time together --yes, Sherlock knew it considerably short-- however, had been evidence enough for Sherlock, more importantly his brain (the heart is just a muscle as it holds no conscious voice over sentimental decisions) to consider John the most irrecoverably thought provoking entity to roam the Earth. And that was talking to a man that considered the discoverer of gravity an equal to his intelligence, sometimes even 'wasted talent.'

In this case, Sherlock's heart would break through his rib cage like a cannon ball through a sheet of glass whether it was the smell of faint vanilla lavender perfume that would eventually come to linger on his leather jacket from the stolen touches he shared with John.

Or when Sherlock caught sight of lace skirts, stripped jumpers, the one's with the collars attached through shop windows. An immediate, and overwhelming urge to just pop in and charge anything Sherlock was able to find in John's size onto Mycroft's card grew unshakable.

(Oh, if only Mycroft would've been privy to the fact that he would magically wake up to hundreds of pounds mysteriously missing from his private account all before the end of the month, Mycroft might've considered putting up more of a fight accepting John into Sherlock's life. But it wasn't as if the British government needed the money when looking back, it was the reason Mycroft would get to see his dear brother using his big brain for good, none of that nonsense that usually made mummy and daddy go into hiatus from the bimonthly dinners at the Altemitters.

-

Sherlock's breath stuttered and he gasped wildly nearly choking on his own saliva merely glancing at the color pink, it reminded poor Sherlock of John's rosy, fair, kissable lips that his own lips have yet to touch.

Or whenever Sherlock saw the pale shades of yellow that came with the rising of the sun every morning. The golds, the watered canary yellow, muddied oranges mimicking the colors of John's hair with uncanny perfection for Sherlock thought the sun wished it were John Watson. The sun envied the brightness of John, crippling jealousy blinding the sun's misgivings. For never will the sun and its colors compare to the radiating warmth and comfort of John's arms.

John was the visage of corporeal beauty in Sherlock's eyes. Nothing John could ever do, for now at least, the honeymoon stage was very much still in effect, be entirely horrendous. Perhaps pointless or dull, but Sherlock hoped it never got to the point he would prefer to rip his hair out strand by strand instead of listening to another word come out of John's mouth. And don't get him wrong, John had an agreeable voice, but there did come a time Sherlock had to draw the line no matter how drowned in the syrupy, sticky, sweet pool of amor he was treading in. Oh! And that was clearly something Sherlock didn't ever plan on admitting so silence is golden, don't be a Mycroft.

However, Sherlock was feeling the frosty bite of the winter air on his face, and still he felt a radiating warmth from the pit of his stomach with every thought of John. Sherlock knew what he felt for John was more than just _like_. Possibly more than doting. And more suitably somewhere along the lines of utmost adoration.

Not only was Sherlock now excitingly walking home in less than zero degree weather, and he was doing just that with a face splitting grin and a merry spring to his step. With every step he wandered deeper into the lost fantasies (yes, you heard right. Sherlock was fantasizing when he could've been theorizing) and daydream, vast fields of lamincaea (lavender to everyone else) stretched out for miles in all directions, where the sun never dipped behind the horizon lending its warmth for all to bask in. Butterflies occasionally fluttering around Sherlock, landing on his arm, his finger, sometimes his nose. Their wings tickling the pale skin of his cheek with a fleeting touch. Sherlock had created a world of beauty, and innocence, and he knew there would come the time he would ask himself how that came to be.

But again, Sherlock didn't mind walking back to the house really, even in the frostbite inducing temperatures the countryside was so kind enough to provide. And get this, Sherlock was such a changed man, kind of, almost, somehow, he was getting there -- that even when thinking of Mycroft and having to eventually explain his new found good humor hadn't been enough to put Sherlock Holmes down.

Sherlock felt like the king of everything, like he was on top of the world, like Leonardo in the movie Titanic, (which Sherlock only saw for educational purposes, his modern day movie knowledge was lacking and it would be quite the embarrassing moment if it happened on a date with John. And here we see a perfect example of a hopeful Sherlock Holmes.) and nothing, abso-bloody-lutely nothing could stop him now. (Oh, how did the Queen song go? Sorry, no continue.)

But then Sherlock looked back to the hysterical, and tense, and brutal, and hysterically tense morning. He thought back to the sleepless night (not counting the many before that) fretting over what John could possibly have thought the day before and what xe would want to see Sherlock wear.

Sherlock also took that opportunity to think back to the agonizing walk to school, what in less than ideal conditions after he'd attempt (and succeeded) at Mission: Impossible: Protocol Mycroft. Only to then arrive at school chilled to the bone, feeling like an absolute knob all to have the pleasure of having an upset John Watson on his hands, a mountain of misunderstandings at every turn, and a made up holiday. Great. A disaster by any other name, really.

Sherlock found it amusing, laugh worthy even to think at how far he'd come. It was incredible, a truly incredible transformation, and Sherlock's luck had begun changing the very second Sherlock mustered every ounce of his courage and stepped foot into the library for lunch. Which on one hand, Sherlock was grateful he'd started acting on his impulses rather than rely on his method of dissection. However on the other hand, it was the very same reason Sherlock was in his current state of perpetual anxiety. His last memory of John had been xir walking away from Sherlock...after Sherlock had given xir a kiss on the cheek. It had been a bold move, a bloody dangerous and stupid move but apparently a smooth one, too.

John blushed xir cute, irresistible blush, and then surprised Sherlock with a cheeky blasé comment. Which embarrassingly enough, had left Sherlock practically salivating with a want stronger than the bonds of time, Sherlock wasn't one to exaggerate but it was all those goddamn hormones flooding to the growing bulge in the smack dab center of his pants.

Time had never gone slower in Sherlock's life and he lived in a constant state of redundancy, of ignorance. Sherlock lived surrounded by the suffocating cloud of the naïveté of those that surrounded him.

And it would only do good for Sherlock to be absolutely ready for any and every possible outcome for his next meeting with John. Which was why he'd begun to build up his depleting reserve of courage the same moment he saw John turn away from him after the late bell up until Sherlock had taken the seat across from John in the same corner of the library as the day before.

Sherlock had reminded himself that the upcoming --meeting? appointment? date? with John would be excruciatingly vital. There was absolutely no room for error on Sherlock's behalf considering he'd already shoved his bloody foot down his mouth which was a risk he could not afford to make anytime soon (more hopefully, ever again). John was already reaching the end of xir tether, if xe hadn't so already. And rightfully so, thought Sherlock begrudgingly. He knew John deserved to be spared from his unpredictable, erratic moods, however, the last thing Sherlock wanted to do was let John slip out of his fingers.

And so, Sherlock switched his transport onto autopilot also switching his brain into overdrive. Sherlock considered the possibility of challenging himself to think of as many ways to apologize to John, the element of competition he hoped would spur him on during the duller lulls of tedious thinking.

But the moment of impeding boredom never seemed to arrive, opposite in fact. He found himself running a bit...dry with ideas on how to efficiently --he meant correctly apologize to John. And every alternative that Sherlock came up with seemed pedestrian, and horrifically insufficient for someone as remarkable as John.

Sherlock had taken into consideration the classic supplicating technique, begging John for forgiveness foregoing the dignity that a seventeen year old punk, although he preferred the term passive-aggressive youth, could possibly have. Sherlock even thought perhaps going onto his hands and knees for added effect, all for the extra mile.

Or he could tell half-truths. You know, only tell John what was impertinent for xir to know and the rest of the information would remain safe with Sherlock. An technically it wasn't lying to John, which he'd already sworn not to do for the remainder of his life. However, whichever way Sherlock looked at it --and trust him, he's looked countless amount of ways-- it still felt wrong to omit facts from the same person he swore to remain absolutely truthful to.

Moving on then. Next plan.

Sherlock had looked into the removed yet sentimental approach he considered to be closer to his actual personality. It was rather simple, he would apologize to John, profusely, borderline excessive. Think of a broken Disney doll spewing syrupy confession, but here's the kicker, Sherlock would continue speaking with his normal toned voice, his face would remain calm, cool, and collected. A stoic (cowardly) soldier unafraid to show his emotions if you will, at least that's what Sherlock wanted it to be.

Eager ole Sherlock had already started thinking on a good hook for the introduction to his apology speech extravaganza. (What? It added an element of emphasis that was greatly needed with the mood as dreary as now.)

So, as of now, Protocol: Cool As A Cucumber (what else was Sherlock supposed to name it, this was a time sensitive mission and he'd be damned if he wasted any second of it thinking on a name for one of his many missions) sounded the most likely out of the three he'd had so far.

Although, Sherlock could just wait until John actually talked to him, or you know, asked Sherlock the questions xe wanted to know the answers to. And of course, Sherlock hoped for nothing more than for them to find some way to sort through the mess of misunderstandings and misgivings as the stellar couple Sherlock hoped they would be. It would be like finding a needle in a haystack, every word spoken in the last twenty-four hours had caused a chain reaction, and it was Sherlock's job to find what had caused the metaphorical dominos to finally tip over...And he seriously needed to work on his analogies, or get his thoughts onto one mind stream because haystacks, needles, dominos? Really, Sherlock? Come on.

Sherlock felt hesitant as well coming too prepared to his rendezvous with John. He had a tendency to over do things to the degree of most professionalism -- yes, quite right, and from what Sherlock has seen on the tele, some people don't appreciate half-assed, half-hearted apologizes that bothered you enough to prepare some words before hand.

Sherlock would rather valiantly enter this battle with nothing but his instincts and a shitload of hope, rather than actually bursting out in a pre-prepared apology speech that more likely than not force John to call Sherlock out on his bullshit. And one would think all Sherlock had to do was apologize, but no, this was combat, a war. There was a winning side, and a losing side, explosive going off at any given moment, the feeling of impending loss looming heavily over one's heart.

And Sherlock was much too afraid to leave anything up to chance considering he'd already fooled around with the fickle flames of fire. And it was too damn early in the game (in the game? _In the game?!_ Where in Sam's heck had Sherlock picked up such colloquial terms?) to be begging for forgiveness --for more forgiveness. Shouldn't they be (from what Sherlock had deduced the nanosecond right after he'd stolen the kiss on John's cheek) somewhere along the lines of heavy flirting and 'we-don't-even-need-to-flirt-because-we're-just-waiting-to-see-who-asks-who-out-first-that-is-if-we-don't-physically-jump-each-other-first-in-the-hallway' stage?

So Sherlock sat there, in exactly the same seat as yesterday waiting for John to make a life changing entrance past the library doors. Sherlock had even announced to his last period teacher before storming out of the room that he would take leave half an hour earlier than scheduled. It was all to make sure that under no circumstance would Sherlock somehow fuck things up and arrive late. And like Sherlock had been saying this whole time, or at least what he should've been saying this whole time, no detail is a small detail.

Sherlock continued to walk back to his temporary residence, and he felt as if he were decompressing from the day's events, and Sherlock, however much he denies it, sees no shame in the release process. In fact, it's his favorite part, because he knew from experience what it felt like to work oneself up to the limit of no return, to get into your own psyche, and the feeling of letting go, of possible freedom felt like warm sunshine on a cloudy day. And today had been an emotionally stressful day for Mr Holmes the Junior, he had been thrown into the mix of a gut wrenching cocktail of judgement, and Sherlock didn't come with a certified bartending license.

Trudging back along the narrow paths of the muddy roads, Sherlock thought it would be a perfect time to rate his performance/reaction time in reference to his last encounter with John. It wasn't like he'd been thinking of doing so for three hours, twenty two minutes, and ten seconds. That would be ridiculous.

Sherlock thought it would be adequate to begin his evaluation starting from after the late bell rang to...whatever it was he'd accomplished with John after xir unexpectedly early arrival at the library. Well, when Sherlock said _early_ arrival...he would get to that later.

Admittedly a first for the impulsive boy, Sherlock decided to opt for the responsible course of action as he headed directly to the study table. That's right, Sherlock hadn't dawdled around the science reference section the second he'd entered the library. His brain urging him to go search for new research material, he needed the stimulation and my even his fingers itched to feel the smooth slide of paper. Books always transported Sherlock into another world, one where people weren't complete idiots and used the common sense they were born with. But that wasn't real, and even in that alternate universe, all of those people were boring and unimaginative. And here Sherlock had John that is more of a curiosity than anything to have ever been written in any book.

However, Sherlock had soon spotted his massive error after only spending approximately three minutes seated in his chair. There would be no way Sherlock could survive the next five minutes, forget about the rest of the time until lunch, without anything, and he meant literally anything to occupy himself with. And because there were no people around for Sherlock to pick apart, and embarrass from a distance (in a loud, indiscrete voice).

Neither did any the rooms of his mind palace need his urgent attention, Sherlock had no ongoing experiments back at the house he could tweak the formulas in his head. He had nothing to do, zilch, zero. And Sherlock believed that perhaps this was the time to cut himself some... let's call it slack.

The plan would go as follows --Sherlock would have precisely two minutes and forty-five seconds to chose any reading material of his liking. Once the time is up, Sherlock must return to his seat in preparations for John's arrival, under no circumstance should he be MIA in all of this.

John could walk through those doors at any minute and Sherlock would sure as hell be sat in that chair, even if the fiery home of satan froze over. Sherlock was the determined type, he would apologize come rain or shine, because if John Watson wanted a damn apology, xe would get the apology of a lifetime.

Sherlock rushed over to the nearest cluster of book shelves that happened to be fiction, what a travesty, where he would spend his allotted almost three minutes before finally settling down to wait John's arrival.

He briefly glanced at the clock on the wall catching the time somewhere around quarter to twelve. And as the minute hand on the clock changed, Sherlock immediately began his search for anything palatable amongst the multitude of shelves of the drivel others thought to be award worthy (sometimes it even went as far as winning) literature.

Book after book, Sherlock had seen nothing but paper and ink put to waste. He had perversely circled around the fiction area twice skimming over several titles, sometimes even making it past the introduction, but he'd stop there.

The plot line of every single book Sherlock had held in his hand had been obviously transparent. Not to mention as well as dull, poorly thought out, and over complicated, almost to the point the author offers the ending on a platter to the reader. No imagination, no element of surprise whatsoever.

In fact, Sherlock had been so appalled by what he'd seen, he'd missed the ringing of the lunch bell. The ringing of the lunch bell, the warning bell, and the late bell to be exact. Why not ass onto to his growing list of --he doesn't even know what to call them at his point.

Oh Sherlock. How the tragedies befall him, the poor lad.

It hadn't been until Sherlock had picked up one of the the dusty copies of Stephen Hawking's thesis, and heard the chittering of voices which hadn't been there when he'd arrived, mind. That he'd come to realize what clusterfuck he's gotten himself into, again.

_Sherlock, if only you could do what you're supposed to do for once in your life, just once. Is it too much to ask?_

Sherlock thwacked poor Steven Hawking's book against his head before he set off through the library floor at super sonic speed, well, when he said super sonic speed Sherlock wasn't trying to get kicked out of the library either. His muscles tense and his stomach a tangle of corrosive nerves which Sherlock would even go as far as saying the Gordian knot was child's play compared to his struggles. (Drama? Check. And right on time, so at least Sherlock had gotten one thing right so far in the last twenty-four hours.)

And of course, the faster he ran towards the table (hopefully not towards John, not just yet) the slower he'd seem to go. Sherlock frustratingly watched as the room around him would inch by and yet he continued to push and push against the force of time. Outraged was an understatement, Sherlock was enraged, livid, border on fuming.

And now for the moment of truth, as Sherlock turned zoomed past the last set of shelves to just reach the table and... _fuck_. _ **Fuckityfuckfuck**_. John was sitting ramrod straight opposite from where Sherlock had set down his book bag sometime after he'd arrived. Sherlock had a feeling it had been the sight of his graffitied bag that had convinced John to stay for a little while longer. Or else, Sherlock estimated, John would have waited a maximum of two minutes before hightailing out the door with xir dignity. Which was far more impressive than anything Sherlock could have to share on the matter.

But at least Sherlock had done one thing (sort of) right in the last hour or so, and he had his laziness to thank for the miracle of Sherlock settling at the table before stupidly deciding to disappear like he had done.

It was the look of frustration and heartbreak painting John's graceful features that had caused Sherlock, for the second time that day, to feel like he'd been severed in half by a chainsaw. If he wanted to be more specific, then Sherlock would mention the part where they would then thrown the pieces of his heart into a paper shredder and light the heart confetti ablaze. Delightful business, _no_?

Sherlock didn't know if he would rather have the world swallow him alive or if he would prefer to be sent to another galaxy all by himself. However, the more he considered his options, the more he realized how cowardly he was being and somewhere deep inside himself, Sherlock knew John would never be such a coward if xe were put in Sherlock's situation. And may god be ever so merciful to John and spare xir kind spirit from experiencing such levels of humiliation.

Now thinking about it, shame and degradation put aside, what exactly made Sherlock's situation so horrendously terrible after all? Sure, he had made the biggest, worst hypocritical assumptions of John's judgement and personality and had changed his appearance accordingly.   
Sherlock had then gone and lied to xir about why he'd so suddenly had a change of heart (and appearance) and suddenly believed in nonsense like aesthetics. Of course, which Sherlock had then covered up with another lie because that had worked out so well for him the last time. And to finish it all of, Sherlock thought what would get him out of everything for sure would be to try and smooth things over with John with a kiss --on the cheek, get your mind out of the gutters. See, Sherlock wasn't not so bad...It's not Sherlock's finest hour that's for sure, and at least it hadn't been a true Sherlock Spectacular with tears shed and police reports for Mycroft to destroy.

Still, Sherlock having to see the grimace on John's habitually smiling lips made for a rude awakening. Sherlock took in a readying deep breath in, then another, and another before finally walking over to John not exactly like someone who's ready to start a serious, game changing conversation but more like a man sent towards the gallows.

John must have seen, possibly even have heard Sherlock walking xir way because John's back unnaturally stiffened, pulled taut like a school grade ruler. And still with a formal, light clearing of the throat, John spoke, voice neutral, and unbelievably void of any emotion that may, or may not have been bubbling and building up inside xir at that precise moment.

"Well, isn't this just peachy, Sherlock? I see you finally decided to show up, how nice of you." The thermostat in the room had to have been faulty because there was no way Sherlock could've felt the temperature drop below freezing in the span of two seconds.

"John, I can explain. I was --what happened, I was looking at the Stephen Hawkings. Stupid. What I meant to say was bo--" Sherlock had close to an infinite amount of ways he would've liked to explain to John a little more fluently the reason for his stupidity (once again, he knows, Sherlock knows, it's old news by now and fuck, Sherlock couldn't help himself.) and that he hadn't meant for John to think Sherlock was standing xir up. But of course, _damn it Sherlock, **speak!**_

"I'm sure you have a perfectly reasonable explanation as to why I've been waiting here for, I don't know, twelve? maybe fifteen minutes or so. However, right now, I seriously don't want to listen to what you have to say on that." Xir lips pulled taut and John scrunched up xir nose (adorably) grumpily, a series of crinkles formed on John's forehead and at the corners of the mouth Sherlock valued more than all the treasures on this Earth.

Sherlock dutifully obliged to John, it was the least he could do if he wanted to get out of the dog house anytime soon. Sherlock was still standing besides the table, and honestly, the poor boy was waiting for John to give him the okay to sit down. The cherry on top of the cake would be for Sherlock to unknowingly break any boundaries John had intentionally set since their last conversation to keep Sherlock from messing anything else up.

John released a sigh Sherlock was becoming uncomfortably familiar with as xe crossed his arms loosely over xir chest. Sherlock was soon lost in sinful thoughts of John's arms, muscular, and toned straining against the delicate fabric of xir grey beaded shirt. He knew it was neither the time nor the place to be thinking of such thoughts but what could he say, John did things to Sherlock, unspeakable things.

"You asked me for five minutes to explain --whatever it is you need to explain, so here I am. Make it good, Sherlock, you've already made me wait long enough." And with that, John shifted back on xir seat, arms and now xir legs artfully crossed.

"Yes, of course." Sherlock took a deep breath in. His brain had been slowly dousing itself with petrol for hours it felt because now that it was actually time for Sherlock to talk, he felt as if his whole existence, his identity, his being, had combusted into smithereens. Millions and millions of ash sized pieces blown away by the wind of hope.

And there Sherlock goes once again with the dramatic analogies when all he needs is a good old fashion fixing of man-the-fuck-up, and a side of get-a-grip-you-big-baby.   
  
He wasn’t ready for this, Sherlock was truly one hundred percent not ready but since he hadn’t thought to bother to test out his time teleportation plan and there didn’t appear to be any other way out. Sherlock knew he was stalling. Not only towards John as he squirmed in his seat (it was all John’s fault, xe was gazing straight at Sherlock, straight into his soul more like, and it was enough already he was a raw ball of nerves waiting to implode) and Sherlock had chosen to deliberately forget how to speak, breathe, think. Come to think of it, brain function in general was being quite the bitch if he did say so himself.

Sherlock looked like a fish out of water, his mouth closing and opening around half uttered syllables. “In your own time, Sherlock. It’s not as if we already have a thirty-five minute lunch break which fifteen of those you’ve already wasted on god knows what.” Once again Sherlock felt the overwhelming sense of guilt (serves him right) rush over him like the violent waves that crash upon the sand covered shores.

Sherlock tried his best to hide the unwelcome cringing sensation, however, in the end, his transport won over his iron will. Shuddering slightly with another look into John’s eyes, Sherlock gave the slight push (shove) he'd needed all this time to flip the on switch of his hypothetical spunk.

However, John, too was feeling guilt on his behalf believe it or not. Although xe may not have distinctly done anything to Sherlock to cause the tsunami waves of said guilt. Nevertheless, John had been definitely overdoing the denigratory comments judging by the increase of Sherlock’s discomfort. The poor boy was beginning to stammer worse than if he were to suffer from a speech impediment. John had thought a bit of snark and bite wouldn’t hurt because the moment xe started letting Sherlock walk all over xir, the quicker it would be the story of Mary Morstan all over again.

John from the second xe's first saw Sherlock's face,xe made sure to promise xirself to be strong. That xe wouldn’t let anyone subject xir to the pain or humiliation Mary had managed to put xir through time and time again. But the more he stared at Sherlock and saw that xir own glare was practically traumatizing the boy, what with the squirming, and the shivers. (John wasn't sure whether he should add the stammer just yet as that could just be one of Sherlock's nervous ticks)

John realized now how harsh xe must've appeared in the last few minutes or so, forget about their morning talk, that was a lost cause. No wonder Sherlock had decided to lie to xir this morning, and it would explain why Sherlock had tried avoiding their lunch meeting (it certainly couldn’t be a date anymore, not with the way John had treated Sherlock) as long as possible. It was a miracle John had succeeded sitting Sherlock down in front of xir to finish off their conversation.

“Well, you see, John, what happened earlier --what you saw earlier or technically are seeing now as I haven’t changed clothes yet is the result of a slight…” Sherlock furrowed his eyebrows, “let’s call it an misunderstanding for the sake of further problems. And on my behalf, I would of course like to apologize for any hardships I've cause you." Sherlock swallowed hard and blinked several times in succession, "Truly John, I’m so...sorry?”

“Um, it’s okay, Sherlock, that's all fine. But what exactly are you saying sorry for? That’s what you have yet to explain to me, and quite frankly what I really want to hear come out of your mouth in the next few minutes.”

Remember when John said he would definitely cut off the snark as soon as possible to avoid any further ‘physiological’ damage on Sherlock? In John's defense, nobody’s perfect, and especially neither was John Watson when xe wants to hear the damn reason xe was being lied and cheated to. (Woah there John! Cheated? You haven’t been cheated. Lied to, yes, but cheated is a bit of an exaggeration.)

“You’re absolutely right.” grimaced Sherlock as if the words were physically paining him to come out of his mouth. And in the tinniest of sarcastic whispers, John took the chance to chime in with, “I bloody better be.” John, it seemed, was having more trouble than anticipated putting his ‘less hostile’ foot forward. “John, this isn’t going to be easy for me to say but...I’m an idiot, a massive idiot in fact. And what I did --well, what I have done is rather shameful. There was even a moment of such intense self doubt, I considered things to be factual data solely based on empirical and unfounded evidence. Behaviour like this would’ve made even my previous science professor with an online degree and two mistresses cry. I apologize, John.”

“Sherlock, that’s all great. Really, it's super and I'm glad you've done...whatever the hell it is you needed to do... But again, what are you apol--”

“Would you let me finish, John?” bristled Sherlock, his tone guarded but serious. “I haven’t finished explaining myself and it’s taken me long enough to get to this point, I would like to see it done thank you very much. And from what I’ve deduced, so do you.” John conceded _.Touché, Sherlock Holmes. Well played._

John nodded xir head once and let out a grumbled, although sincere, (he hoped) apology for not allowing Sherlock to properly continue with his explanation.

“As I was trying to say,” Insert dramatic award winning intake of breath here. "I’ve been a proper idiot, John. Which is what I’ll mostly be stressing throughout our conversation because quite frankly its just easier to skip the part where we talk about every time I've already messed up. However, I do want to give you a sense of where everything started to go a bit not good --where I started to go a bit not good! As I said, this has nothing to do with you.” At least Sherlock had started off strong because the end he'd officially become a lost cause, a babbling spew of nonsense words.

John could physically feel Sherlock’s distress hanging heavily in the air between them, unpleasingly seeping through the pores of John’s skin making xir feel pinpricks of discomfort rising at the back of xir neck. To John, it felt very much like being stuck in the early stages of a panic attack.

Xe needed to do something to calm Sherlock down, to ease him. Let Sherlock know everything would be okay (that was at least until xe got an explanation) but xe needed to do it as of yesterday. Judging by the newly acquired, basically translucent pallor of Sherlock’s skin, the poor boy didn’t have much fight left in him.

“Sherlock, hon, you need to breathe. It’s gonna be okay, listen to me, it’s all okay.” John extended a placating hand in Sherlock’s direction as xe conducted guided breathing exercises for Sherlock’s benefit.

There would be no suffocating Sherlocks today, no sir. John would leave with _xir_ Sherlock alive and well thank you very much. And wait. Just wait for one darn second. Had John really just said _xir_ Sherlock?

Geez! Good, yeah this was good, bloody perfect in fact. When had Sherlock magically become xir Sherlock? Like at exactly what moment had John stumbled upon the decision that xe’d just take over Sherlock’s free will to with with as xe pleases? Because xe doesn't remember anything of the like, nothing even remotely close where John would have to admit to xirself there was a teensy bit of fixation going on. Ridiculous John, incredibly, one hundred percent shameful.

Although, it wasn't entirely a terrible idea having Sherlock become the focus of attention to the little ole John Watson. Xe who so desperately had wanted a gentleman caller to take xir to the ball, and which now John had found himself a potential partner, one who would try to do xir justice and honor John Watson in the most daring and dangerous of ways --Sherlock would learn to love John, but neither of them knew that just yet.

“Oh, John. Can you see the massive idiot that I can be? I can't even breathe like a normal person, god help me, John I can feel my brain cells leaking out of my ears.” Sherlock all but wailed.

But since Sherlock is a box full of surprises, he tried his damned hardest to compose himself as best a man could. The same man that had whined not even ten seconds ago but as they say in show business, the show must go on.

_Take a deep breath Sherlock, use those lungs you so often take for granted._

“But I digress." Breathe, steady now. "Yesterday I can honestly say was the most refreshing day to my memory, and it's all thanks to you John, honestly. You made me feel like a decent human being for the first time in a long time. And you did so without making everything else feel mundane or dull.

"You also didn't do like everyone else does and immediately write me off as a delinquent. All because I chose to wear different attire than most people, it's funny that such ordinary everyday things bring out the worst in some people.”

John's arms fell limp against his body, the connection between his anger and reasoning had been snipped probably the second Sherlock had gone and opened his mouth.

Sherlock took in another big gulp of air, (damn, at this rate Earth should start considering looking into air alternatives if Sherlock kept hogging up all the oxygen.) “If I’m being honest, I think you’re the first person --besides the obligatory one-sided babble at family dinners-- to have more than a two minute conversation with me without insulting, screaming, and/or throwing something at me.”

Yep, there it is again, the guilt, the massive, overwhelming sense of fault. No biggie.

John felt xirself fill with the unfamiliar heat of compassion and sympathy after hearing the struggles Sherlock had been through. Only because they were so damn alike to xirs, especially the part where John's family pretended John didn't exist and kept pushing xir onto other members of the Watson family.

John had just assumed Sherlock would've been more confident, secure about his identity as a punk teen of today's society. There was nothing wrong with having a half shaved head and blue hair tips, or black leather pants that were practically held together by safety pins. John was okay with that, xe like it, actually. And perhaps, xe even considered it a tad bit sexy.

But it wasn’t as xe hadn’t sensed this would be a difficult topic for Sherlock since the beginning. But then again, xe hadn’t expected their discussion to be a touching topic for xir as well.

John kept trying to meet Sherlock’s gaze, you know, to reassure him and stuff. However, Sherlock was doing everything in his power to look everywhere but at John, better yet, anywhere in the general direction of John.

“You could imagine, John, how excited I must’ve been sitting there talking to you. This wonderful, unique, and relatively clever person. To have them talk back --to have you talk back just with just as much enthusiasm made me feel alive. And I cannot stress this enough, never before had this been a _thing_ in my life. The whole having a conversation not centered around academic topics, not skirting around the edges of a predetermined list of topics, etcetera. As far as I know, it was then when my admittedly rare side of irrationality surfaced.”

Sherlock shrunk back into the black plastic chair letting the sensation of being swallowed alive mindlessly overtake him.

Moments of strained silence wound John up to give Sherlock the necessary little push he needed to continue talking. “But why?” Asked John.

A dangerous question as xe could potentially be asking about an endless amount of things from Sherlock. However, xe was nice enough to specify, “Why don't people like to listen? Why wouldn’t they want to hear what you have to say? Quite frankly, like you, yesterday was nothing short of incredible despite what anyone thinks.”

John grinned, well, more like xe lifted one side of his face in a affectionate manner meant to show Sherlock some support. (Brownie points for sure would be coming xir way, or so John hoped. Xe desperately needed at least one or two...thousand. That would do wonders in getting John back into Sherlock's good books that was for sure.)

Sherlock stilled in his actions staring at John with an blatant face of surprise. Apparently amongst the things he’d expected to hear from John, hearing that he’d actually made someone’s day hadn’t been high on Sherlock’s list. Not even close, truthfully, it hadn’t been anywhere on his list or around it, not at all.

John switched into panic mode when he noticed the blank look on Sherlock’s face made unmistakable by the guarded positioning of Sherlock’s arms across his own chest. That was never a good sign if the person you’re trying to talk to unconsciously seeks for additional comfort or reinforcement. Wow, John, here’s a pat on the back for convincing Sherlock he isn’t safe in your presence.

Instead, John managed an impressive dramatic face palm that even xe thought was long overdue. “I’m sorry if that was a bit too forward.” amended John, xir voice pitched higher than usual on the verge of breaking because of nerves.

“No, it’s...fine. Absolutely fine.” Sherlock breathed in dazedly. “However, the answer to your question is quite simple, and I do believe I have answered it several times before. Whether it was by an unconscious effort, or through the self reflection of the less than savory personalities that I carry with me.” Sherlock watched as John raised xir eyebrows both in confusion and in contempt. “And by that I mean, just look at me, John --well, at how I looked yesterday. Who could possibly look at me and think that perhaps somewhere inside of all that lies a person that doesn’t spend all of their time contemplating how to dismantle the hierarchy? Because nine times out of ten, that’s all that people think.”

“Who’s the other person then?” John asked. What? It was a valid question even if Sherlock was staring at John as if xe’d sprouted another head. “You said nine times out of ten, no? Then who, more importantly, where has the one person been all this time when you’ve been feeling so alone?”

Sherlock snorted but John saw no reason for Sherlock to be amused at the moment. There was nothing funny about their conversation.

“That person is you John, obviously. How stupid can you be?” John’s eyebrows arched so high they seemed to disappear from xir forehead and Sherlock, the berk, snorted once again. “Oh, don’t get so offended, almost everyone is stupid. You just happen to be slightly less stupid than the rest.”

 _Better,_ thought John, _you live to see another day, Sherlock Holmes. For now._

“And that’s another thing,” Sherlock blurted out as if he hadn’t been sure whether he’d wanted to share this tidbit with John or not. “When I speak, I usually --well, almost always have a tendency to rub others the wrong way. And it’s not my fault that I’m superior to them in a magnitude of different situations. And for that exact same reason, I simply will not lower my standards for the benefit of others. I will not and I cannot, it’s not me John. I’m tired of not being me, it's one of the reasons I’m at this school, actually.

"And all last night I thought to myself, what if you didn’t like the real me? The me that wore piercings, and a leather jacket. The same one who was considering to get his fringe raccoon striped within the week, or god knows what I'll come up with. I thought what if you only liked certain things about me and my overall aesthetics hadn’t been one? At least that was an easy change as for the behavior would’ve taken more time to see an improvement. And that's when I said to myself, as long as I get John Watson to be mine, the price of becoming another conforming piece of society would be a small one to pay.”

John froze after hearing Sherlock’s numbing confession, ice crystal by ice crystal. Xe’d wanted the truth and nothing but the truth hadn’t xe. But damn xe hadn’t been ready for something as precious and sincere (and heartbreaking) as what Sherlock had told him. Why must Sherlock be constantly breaking his heart --in a good way this time, mind-- like this. There would come a time when John would lack the strength to mend xir aching heart.

And at that very moment, John's heart ached for Sherlock, xir precious Sherlock (there xe goes again calling Sherlock xir again but damn it, xe couldn't help xirself). Had xe really made such an impact on what first appeared to be an arrogant, but incredibly smart, and handsome, young man that later Sherlock thought he needed to alter his entire appearance to please xir, simple ole John Watson. John hoped that wasn’t the case but deep down xe knew that’s what it all boiled down to.   
Sherlock had kept silent trying not to interrupt John whilst xe was slowly processing and absorbing the harsh truth of Sherlock’s words. The words flowed through John like poison through a river, forcing its corrosive chemicals into every crack and corner in existence. Burning and biting through the barely existing layers of confidence left inside John .

The demanding pain hanged heavy on John’s heart --and blah blah blah. Woe is me, it is the east and Sherlock is the sun.

John was getting exceptionally good at playing the victim. Only paying attention at how miserable xe was feeling and not at figuring out the reason behind Sherlock’s incident earlier. When did John believe was the right time to step in to actually try and attempt at consideration towards Sherlock besides the pity party xe’d started in Sherlock’s honor.

Not only would Sherlock have shuddered away in disgust at the fact John had started to pity him, it simply hadn't been...considerate (and that's putting it nicely) of John to immediately assume Sherlock required his petty pity to turn everything into sunshine and rainbows again.

John came to the brilliant plan and let Sherlock decide what he wanted to do, John would be effectively stepping back as of...now. If Sherlock wished to build upon his story, then who was John to stop Sherlock from doing so.

Also, what kind of friend would John be if xe didn’t stick around to listen to what Sherlock had to say? Even if it was utterly excruciating and caused John to stew in heart-rotting guilt. Or hopefully, it would turn xir day around for the better.

However, if Sherlock decided right now he wanted nothing more to do with John, (as Sherlock mentioned earlier, John had been the reason Sherlock had seen it fit to subject himself to a complete makeover) then John, with a heavy heart, would walk away and leave Sherlock alone.

Xe’d already caused Sherlock enough melodrama and self-consciousness. John had planted the seed of doubt and questioning within the fragile mind of Sherlock. The last thing the poor boy needed was a pathetic, identity confused (according to ninety-eight percent of the world's population) leech begging for his attention.

So with nothing more to say, John kept his mouth shut abhorrently feeling the seconds pass by with an echoing ticking noise. It was beginning to drive John crazy to say the least, patience had never been one of xir best virtues.

The silence stretched on for miles and miles, the possibility to an end was doubtful. Sherlock locked eyes with John expressing a rare plethora of indescribable emotions. But John knew damn well what was happening. Xe should know _that_ look better than most because not so long ago, that same look had been all John had seen when looking into the mirror. It was the look of terror, whether it was at yourself, at your family and friends, at the one who spoke at the wrong place and at the wrong time. Sherlock Holmes was confused, and a tiny bit scared at what the future had in store for him, as was John.

John knew xe had said xe wouldn’t intervene with Sherlock’s decision making but what xe was about to do, would it really count as interfering? Really, really?

Sherlock had at some point in their tête-à-tête had crossed his hands atop of the table, his fingers intertwined in almost a death grip akin to the one a python would hold its prey in before swallowing it down whole. Nevertheless, John saw xir chance and xe went for the kill, (ha! Xe said kill which was funny since xe’d just compared Sherlock to a snake and now xe was comparing xirself to a snake...and where was xe?)

John every so gently laid a shaky hand over Sherlock’s white clenched fists. Softly, ever so carefully that surgeons all over the world would’ve died of envy had they been witness, surely.

John been sucking in xir breath from the second xe’d decided to place any inch of skin on top of Sherlock’s. Xir lungs burned awkwardly, aching for some sort of release but John, always the masochist preferred to feel the dull nagging in his chest than the mind-shattering, heart-numbing pain and watch Sherlock’s face go through all the emotions over and over again.

Sherlock startled at the feather-light feeling of John’s hands atop of his, that had been the last thing he’d expected from John. Sherlock honestly had expected John to call him out on his weak sentimentality, on his feebleness, ridiculously sacrificing years of pigheadedness all for a stranger. Like, what sort of person just throws away what little reputation they’d manage to build in their new town, where they're being held hostage by the head of British government, mind, all for a possible love interest?

And the more Sherlock thought about it --and even though Sherlock didn’t care much for classic literature since it didn't concern him directly-- the more Sherlock saw a connection between himself and here come the cringe, Romeo, from the house of Montague. The two boys suffered from the wrath of the ever so rash, and unforgiving logic of cupid. He who shot his arrows carelessly into the air and had happened to hit the man without a heart. And now said man, Sherlock so there is no confusion, is being made to suffer the endless consequences as Romeo had and look at where he ended up.

Sherlock stared down at their joint hands and then into John’s eyes, down at their hands again and back up to John’s doe-ish eyes. “I, uh, I spent a good part of the morning going through my closet, you know, searching for something...less eye catching, and more suiting to wear the next time I saw you. I knew it wasn’t going to be an ideal situation for me, the clothes, not wearing any makeup, but as I said, small price to pay. I would rather deal with the minor changes to my person than having to watch your face shrivel in disgust because I’m Sherlock. That guy over there that only wears leather even in thirty degree weather. The same one that made the science teacher --also the secretary, two lunch ladies, and the groundskeeper-- cry on his first day not even five minutes after entering the room with his jangling chains and spikes.” Sherlock huffed in frustration, however, the undertone of self-resentment hadn’t gone unnoticed by John.

Under xir hand, John felt Sherlock’s pulse skyrocket, quite possibly even skipping a beat here and there. John squeezed xir hands reassuringly (at least xe thought it was) over Sherlock’s making sure to press down harder to ground Sherlock from the overwhelming high (not the one you’re thinking of, most assuredly) of emotions (see, told you so) Sherlock was most assuredly experiencing.

“Changing the clothes was easier than I’d thought, I guess I’d expected to feel a bigger shock seeing myself in different clothes. But nothing compared to the feeling of having to leave my room without eyeliner on or the feeling of having my hair gelled back, and then the feeling of not being able to do anything about it. I felt like everyone but myself from the second I'd decided to put on these horrid clothes. And I can't tell you of a time I've felt more like a fuck up than when I stared myself down in the mirror, head half shaved, expensive-ass clothes wrinkled and uncared for. And fuck, the only thing I could think was how this is what everyone wants me to look like, my mother, my father, Mycroft, and now so did you --or so I was under the impression. In my mind, I had failed once again, and this time, not only to my family, but to someone who I would have died then and there to impress, to make them like me. I couldn’t disappoint someone else, I couldn’t disappoint you.

"So, yeah. I figured a way out of the house without having Mycroft see me, and I walked to school counting down every last second until I got to see you. But the moment I saw your face drop, oh John, it was then I knew I wasn’t as invincible as I’ve believed myself to be my whole life.”

Sherlock looked down at the table releasing John’s melancholy stare. He didn't want John to look down at him like a lovelorn puppy but more like a martyr that would sacrifice his joy and happiness for the sake of his (potential) loved one.

“Sherlock, you --you massive clot.” John whispered in dumbstruck realization.

John didn’t think xe could possibly struggle through the rest of what xe’d planned to say, the shock had hit him too hard square in the middle of xir chest. Umph!

Xe’d shut xir eyes tight for what seemed a millennium hoping against hope this was all in xir head. Nevertheless, the look of utter and complete devastation painting Sherlock’s face said otherwise. “No! No no no, not like that Sherlock. I didn’t mean it like that, obviously I didn’t mean it like that.”

Sherlock firmly clenched his jaw. “Sure, whatever you say, John.” said Sherlock in a stoic voice. “Now, I believe I’ve made my point here, it’s rather time for me to go. Do excuse me.”

Sherlock place both of his hands flat on the table top, readying to lift himself up and walk out of the library. And being the sentimental sod he'd become in the last few days, Sherlock glanced at John sparingly for what he believed to be the last time before he hefted himself to a standing position. However, John had been faster than Sherlock as xe got onto xir feet before Sherlock.

“That’s not what I meant, Sherlock and you know it. Stop being difficult.” John reached out to wrap his shorter fingers around Sherlock’s wrist that were still resting on the table. “Let me explain.”

The two teens were caught in a stare down of epic proportions, neither wanting to break eye contact first until, eventually, John forfeited. (Only because xe was technically in deeper trouble than Sherlock and not because a small part of xir felt the need to please Sherlock, to make the boy feel happy once again, and under John's doing.)

“Please, Sherlock. I think it's about my turn now to ask for five minutes of your time before you leave me here. I've heard what you had to say, the least you can do is hear me out.”

Sherlock, operating at a curious and reluctant pace, sat back down into his chair, never once averting his eyes from John’s skittish gaze. It was as if the universe had been tilted on its head. John sat squirming in his chair like an impatient toddler whilst Sherlock sat forward in his seat garnering any emotion he could from watching John sweat under the hypothetical pressure.

What pressure one may ask, Sherlock wasn’t sure. But it was enough to make John’s voice hoarse and raspy the next time xe went to speak. (Sherlock sure as hell wouldn’t be the first one to break the silence. Are you crazy? He’d just exposed a deep, dark place within himself to John and was called a clot, straight to his face. At least others --cough, Sally, cough-- had the decency to turn her face when laughing at him --out of pity granted, but still.)

So instead Sherlock curtly nodded letting John know xe could continue and that perhaps Sherlock could find himself in a forgiving mood. (Who was he kidding, of course he’d forgive John should a good enough reason come to light.)

“Yeah, well, what I meant to say, Sherlock, is that maybe you weren’t at your brightest --no, hold on, I'm not done-- thinking I could possibly like you any less for the way you dress. I mean look at me, skirt an all. So yeah, maybe you are not entirely a clot for thinking that --no, don’t look at me like that, but an idiot, that's for sure.” John giggled with a lighthearted joviality.

Xe didn’t seem as frightened at losing Sherlock’s attention as before. “I’m like you Sherlock, I don’t belong in this world yet. There isn’t a place for people like me to go and feel like I have a place to belong, and I don’t see one coming about any time soon. Meeting you felt like the closest thing to finding a place where I could belong. And I'm asking you, Sherlock, please don’t take it away from me now, don't leave me feeling empty inside like this. You wouldn't do that would you? Don't answer that. Look at it like this, we’re both corner edges in the puzzle of life and somehow we manage to complete each other’s pictures, be my puzzle piece Sherlock. Finish my picture.” John finished off with a soppy smile.

If xe was being honest, besides the fact xe’d found the last quote in xir sister’s rom com novel, John though he’d done a hell of a good job patching things up with Sherlock and it all depended on Sherlock whether they continue on whatever the hell they had now or they stopped everything all together. The ball was now in Sherlock’s court and damn did John hate the sensation of not having even a modicum of power in his advantage. But in xir heart, John knew xe’d given it his all. Come on Sherlock, don’t be revenge seeking prat!

“Very touching speech, John.” Sherlock cleared his throat clinically, “I especially loved the last bit at the end, what was it, puzzle pieces? Truly inspiring."

John squinted up at Sherlock’s withdrawn figure,any second now, Sherlock would get up again, but this time he would actually leave, and John felt powerless to stop him.

On one hand, John was beyond doubt xe deserved to be abandoned by Sherlock for all the pain xe’d manage to cause such a singular, and unique person in the span of eighteen plus hours.

But on the other hand, John thought it was _unfair_ Sherlock hadn’t bothered to even take the time to consider if what xe’d had to say could’ve been considered fair game...to a certain extent.

Which it had been, mind you. Everything John had said to Sherlock had been nothing but truth, although, xe did admit some parts had been...not exaggerated but _dramatized_ for several reasonable...reasons.

So this was how it was going to be now? This one sided amnesty coupled with the hopeful expectation of forgiveness had John on tenterhooks.

Of course John liked Sherlock, like liked Sherlock. But would that alone be enough for xir to just cast aside every moral and standard xe’d built for xirself ever since xe'd John left the safety of xir room nails painted a garish purple (courtesy of the lovely but essentially tasteless, Harry Watson. Sorry Harry.) at the age of eight.

“What are you getting at Sherlock?” asked John in the direction of the tall, and momentarily not-punk Sherlock that had now moved on to collect his explosion of papers and what not. “Sherlock, look at me and explain. What are you trying to tell me?”

Sherlock huffed annoyedly and threw his hands in the air. “Don’t play dumb, John. You know perfectly well what I’m trying to tell you, you’re just choosing not to understand because it’s easier to make me look like the idiot. Isn’t it just? But I know what people are willing to do all for a moment of amusement, and no, John. That will not happen to me, again. I will not let that happen.”

Sherlock took a quivery breath in before grabbing both bag straps in hand to later swing his belongings over his shoulder for the perfect thespian finish. Sherlock was anything if not thorough, he was determined to leave with his dignity intact, and having shown John just exactly who xe’d messed with.

“I know people can be stupid but this is just plain ridiculous.” Sherlock grumbled under his breath feeling his body shrivel up but also explode simultaneously.

Xe may have seemed calm and cool, like a paddling duck, that was on the outside. On the inside, John felt as if xe’d been left to stand in a pool of corrosive acid with only a pebble as safe ground. John felt a prickling sensation burn at the corner of xir eyes, the sensation grew and grew stronger, less manageable with every thought, and breath that went by knowing that Sherlock would be going to walk away from xir life, from xir future just like that. As if their time together had meant nothing to him.

In that very same instance, John felt the nee to hit xirself in the head with a hammer because yes, xe was in fact the stupidest person on the planet, perhaps in the entire existence of humanity and that was saying something. (The human race had gone through a plague because they truly believed showering, or personal hygiene in general would make them sickly. Like, gross.)

But in digression, Sherlock had been the one that had silently and wholeheartedly at the drop of a hat given up his happiness, and true inner expression for John. John hadn’t asked for it and still Sherlock had taken it upon himself to make the ultimate of sacrifices in the event to make John happy. If that didn’t say something to John, then John truly was a berk.

Sherlock had made a mistake, a naive and incredibly arrogant mistake --a misunderstanding of sorts is what had happened to be exact. That had lead John to misunderstand after making haste assumptions which Sherlock had done no better when he'd started lying to xir.

After which, Sherlock himself misunderstood John’s misunderstanding of the overall misunderstanding, so here they are, in a giant messy pile of confusion and misunderstandings. Ones which John was resolved to fix even if it killed xir, which xe hope it really wouldn't come to that. John had recorded the new episode of America’s Next Top Models and xe desperately needed to catch up on the new season before Harry opened her big mouth and blabbed any spoilers.

John automatically reached out to Sherlock once again and spoke before the boy could go any further, “I’m sorry, Sherlock for whatever I did wrong. I’m sure I didn’t mean to do any of it Please stay and finish your story --if you’d like. I’d be glad to hear what happens next.”

“Willing,” said Sherlock after a stagnant pause.” You would be willing to hear what would happen next, no one would be glad to hear the pitiful drivel I’ve got to say.”

“I would,” John said in all honesty, xir eyes twinkling with kindling hope. It could be very possible Sherlock would be forgiving xir after all. “I think it’s incredible whenever you speak, truly, I wouldn’t mind hearing you read the phone book all in one go.” John replied with a toothy grin.

A massive sigh of relief was what John let out when xe heard Sherlock snicker drily under his breath. “Is that so? A phone book, huh?” Sherlock replied coyly. “I’ll try my best not to disappoint, but it is quite a feat, even for me.”

John snorted at Sherlock's comment whilst simultaneously holding back the desire to secretly cried with tears of joy thanking every deity for returning Sherlock's old cheeky charm, slowly but surely. There were still minute signs of reluctance weighing down the corners of Sherlock’s mouth, and occasionally his eyes as well, when Sherlock wasn’t forcing himself to smile. Nevertheless, John still considered it to be a win.

Sherlock had somehow miraculously...come to think about it, suspiciously changed from this thundering, all-powerful, perhaps slightly petulant presence to this, dare he say, sarcastically sassy punk --and John meant that in the best way possible. The change had been instantaneous, from one moment to the next, almost microscopic. Barely noticeable to anyone looking at Sherlock, not even those that have passed the rigorous course of learning the Sherlockian language and mannerism.

(Not that it mattered much as Sherlock constantly changed and evolved the way he acted or even carried out the simplest of task solely for that reason. Sherlock craved the power deviance brought into his life. More so, predictability had been the downfall of many great historical people to walk the Earth.)

What Sherlock hadn’t foreseen, however, John knew more than what xe’d let on. For chrissakes, xe’d been in Harry’s presences for sixteen odd years and xe still learned something new every day. (And to think one would run out of things to be surprised about. Nope, Harry was an endless box of surprises.)

Something had happened with Sherlock sometime after John had apologized for the trillionth time, and Sherlock, not exactly in character but not unlike him going ahead to correct xir terminology…

Ah. How could John have been so stupid? It was obvious what had caused Sherlock to change his mind so suddenly. Who wouldn’t be able to figure something so simple, it was all a matter of --John had abso-fucking-lutely no idea what made sense anymore. Well, xe sort of knew what xe had to do to make things right, but to actually get it done, that was a whole other story, mate.

And what made it worse, besides the fact both Sherlock and xir had already wasted so much of their lunch period and that Sherlock was very impatiently waiting for an answer. Was that going to be their thing? Never having enough time together? Always waiting for their next meeting to come along until one day there would be no next meeting? John blamed Harry for the idea. Damn Harry for making xir sit through all of those Ashton Kutcher marathon earlier that week.

John was sweating, actually sweating with actual sweat droplets forming at the nape of xir neck as xe sat in a room that hadn’t had a working heater since the second ice age.

Oh dear, John does ever so well under pressure, “Um, yeah. Sherlock is everything alright, and by that I mean between us, of course. Because if there was --Why would there be anything else going wrong, right? It’s not like you just totally --are we alright, you and me?” Smooth, John, smooth. That was about as smooth as the smoothest peanut butter, was it not? Yeah, it wasn't.

“Of course, John. Why wouldn’t we be?” Sherlock answered at the speed of light. Strange on its own, but when John had seen Sherlock's right eye twitch infinitesimally, it had been more than enough for John to call Sherlock out on his bullshit. Nice try, Sherlock. Better luck next time.

“Oh, no reason. But well, It’s just that a few minutes ago we were --never mind.” John said reticently.

In 3...2...1...Sherlock fell into his trap like how a wooly little baa lamb would waltz into the cave of a ravenous wolf. “That’s not fair John, you can’t just stop talking in the middle of the sentence. If you start saying something, is it that difficult struggling all the way to the end? Again, as I've said, I understand it is a challenge from most to express one’s thoughts in an organized, concise manner but not even you can be that dense.”

“Gee, thanks, Sherlock. Just for that I think I’ll really just keep it to myself.” The evident, although good hearted --not that Sherlock would be able to tell-- sarcasm spoke volumes about where their conversation could possibly be heading.

“No, John, you must continue! Um...please?” Sherlock scrunched his face in a state of dignified distaste. “Please will you just tell me what you were going to say so we can just get past this whole mess and forget it ever happened? You made stupid choices, and I --I wasn't not within my full faculties. Dull, why not move on?”

John jerked back in xir seat with more intensity than if xe were to have been electrocuted by all mighty Zeus himself. John couldn’t believe xir ears, but good lord, please let it be true. Sherlock had not only said what John had had on xir mind for some time now, but Sherlock had gone and said it first. It sort of made it easier for John to broach the topic (coward) whilst letting xir know that even when both Sherlock and xir are on different pages, and all hell starts to break loose, they would at least remain within the margins of the same book.

“That’s --Sure, that’s alright with me.” shrugged John with feigned indifference, when really xe was wriggling with exultant joy. “I was actually thinking about telling you that myself, but you know, you beat me to it. I don’t want to fight anymore, Sherlock. It’s awful to see you upset --yes, Sherlock, upset-- and know that it’s all my fault. Like I’ve said before, the last thing I want to do is cause you any hurt.”

“Well then, it’s settled.” replied Sherlock unperturbed, “We’ll consider this fight --” John interrupted automatically, “I wouldn’t say fight,” Sherlock squinted down at John from where he stood and continued. One thing John would learn early on about Sherlock is how the boy hated to be interrupted. “fine, this melee over and done with. It was nice talking to you, John, good day.”

Finally! That's great, excellent. Amazing. Incredible. John was forgiven by Sherlock and everything else was fine on planet Earth now...except

Damn it! Sherlock was dumber than a doornail, he had to be. Was it possible Sherlock thought that after that poorly done, rushed make up session (John wasn’t a firm believer in solely a verbal apology, as they say, actions speak louder than words.) that John had somehow had enough of Sherlock. What was John going to do with that boy? A piece of work Sherlock sure was, but damn worth it in the end.

“Hold your horses, cowboy. Where are you going off to?” John said jokingly, however, xir voice was laced with agitation.

“Isn’t it obvious? I’m leaving you alone, like you so obviously want to be left. I’ve explained, and apologized...somewhat, and so have you. What else is there to say?” asked Sherlock cocking his head to the side, his eyebrows furrowed in honest confusion.

Sherlock really didn’t get it did he? The whole human interaction thing? Sherlock hadn’t been lying when he’d brought it up, John just assumed Sherlock was shy or antisocial, perhaps even kidding.

“But I don’t want to be left alone,” John spoke straight into Sherlock’s slate grey eyes. “What if I want you here, right next to me? I’ve been searching for the right company for quite some time and I think I’ve found just the person.”

“Oh.” whispered Sherlock. “Oh! You mean me.” Sherlock pointed to himself, mouth hanging open eyes twinkling with happy surprise. “But...me? And you? Why? Never mind. Yes.”

Grinning lopsidedly at Sherlock, “Yes, what?”

“Yes I’ll stay.” beamed the mercurial boy before sobering up just a tad. “As long as you’re sure.”

“I’m sure, Sherlock. I haven’t been surer of anything in a long time.” John held xir hand out hoping Sherlock would get the clue that it was meant for him to grab, which Sherlock did...after a while. Xe gently guided Sherlock back into his seat and grasped the boy’s cool, pale fingers in both xir hands. “Oh, and don’t think we’re done talking about today’s incident just yet. Maybe not later today, or tomorrow, or anytime this week, but we will be talking about this again. Take my word for it, Sherlock”

Sherlock paled at the thought but solely nodded to make John happy, and John knew that was exactly what Sherlock was doing, so xe added one last remark that Sherlock would find it impossible to delete.

“But for now, the world needs a Sherlock Holmes, so be you. Dress however the bloody hell you want, act as snarky as you possibly can, and don’t you dare change for anyone, not even me, I won’t allow it.”

It was in that moment Sherlock accepted deep within his heart that his adoration for John could eventually grown into something much fiercer than he could possibly prepare himself for. And quite frankly, he wasn’t afraid. No, he was ready to open his arms and accept the debilitating roller coaster that is l-o-v-e without a wit of shame. Sherlock would, for the first time in his life, do something with pride and honor, out of free will. And loving John seemed like the perfect place to start.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did anyone spot the Cabin Pressure references. So sad it's finally over because Martin.


End file.
